“Coy Hawkins.” It rings out. “YOU FUCKING CUNT,” Wesley yells. He trips in the yard. The redneck girl gapes from the camper’s top step. Nikki watches them in the rearview. Until they disappear around a hook in the hill. Wesley lives near the top of his hill but not the very top. His road’s dirt. It whiplashes. Dogs lunge from most places but always catch on their chains. Their different howling follows her down. One old man stares from his chair. Gas on the right, brake on the left. It’s not so hard. At the foot of Wesley’s hill Nikki crosses the yellow river. It creeps by like it always will. She turns onto the bottom road, away from the falls. The bottom road goes from dirt to gravel to tar. From falls to highway, but she’s not going that far. As soon as the dirt bumps to gravel she lets off the gas. She inches along. A car bunches behind her and honks and finally passes. She’s looking for this chicken house with its windows shattered. When she sees it she almost turns around.
