The candles and daffodil petals had been removed from Ray's bedroom, but the tarp and the dome-shaped object it had covered—a bird cage—lay on the floor. The cage's occupant had escaped or been paroled; its silver bars imprisoned only a black feather.

Audubon looked out the window, singing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye, four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie. The nursery rhyme always made Ray think of weed. Her voice tinkled like a music box, and she balanced on one leg, halfway between a ballerina and a crane, appearing delicate and graceful and harmless.

Ray frowned. At least coral snakes and poisonous berries give you a warning.

"Ah, the dainty dish awakes." Audubon turned to face him; her mascara was runny, but he doubted that she had been crying for him. "About before—" she glanced at his chest "—I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" He looked beneath the blanket that had been pulled up to his neck. His torso showed no injury, stitches or scarring, but his ribs ached and his stomach churned.

"Temper, temper, Audubon." She slapped the back of her hand. It wasn't bloody; nothing in the room was.

He sat up in bed. "I thought I was dead. It hurt like it was real."

"It's still real, and of course it hurt. I had to break your ribs to make room."

For what? He glanced at the silver bird cage.

"A contingency," she said, covering the cage with the tarp. "You'll thank me later."

Ray shook his head. "I'll thank you for torturing me? You crushed my heart. Literally!"

Audubon frowned. "I apologized for that. It's rude to keep bringing it up."

"You aren't even taunting me, are you? You really believe I'm being rude."

"Well—"

"Who are you people? Aliens? Demons?"

"We are the elephant that lives inside the snake that you mistake for a hat." Audubon sat at the foot of his bed.

Ray tilted his head.

"You haven't read 'Le Petit Prince?' That's a shame, but I can rephrase: We are toes under blankets. If you move your toe, the blanket moves. Few men see blankets, so you should feel special. Fewer still see the toes. But if someone pinches the blanket, the toes feel it, and the pincher may get a kick." Audubon gave Ray a pinch.

He thought better of kicking her. "Men can hurt folk without knowing you exist."

"You treat us like we don't. So it's the same for me." Audubon picked up her birdcage and climbed out of his window. "Get some sleep, killer. It's going to be a long day."

--

Sunlight filtered through Ray's window, waking him for the third time that morning. He staggered into the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and rinsed his mouth. "No more shrooms for you, mister," he said to the mirror.

His haggard reflection did not argue. It had been a terrible trip, and neither of them remembered how he'd gotten home last night.

He groped for a towel and found one caked with dried blood. Audubon had washed up after surgery, which meant the surgery really happened, which meant there was something inside him. He scrubbed his fingers. "Fuck my life."

Something clattered in his kitchen. Ray had not had a roommate since college. He crept into the hallway—it was only long enough to accommodate a tiny closet on one side and a washer/dryer on the other. A pair of Fuji apples rested on the carpeted floor; someone had upended his fruit bowl.

"Audubon?" Ray whispered, peeking into the living-room-slash-kitchen.

Byron stood at Ray's kitchen counter, shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth from a large plastic bowl. Empty shells littered the stovetop and the floor. A rumpled blanket and a pillow lay on Ray's couch. "Hey man! You're out of eggs," Byron said.

"I had a dream about you." Ray slapped his forehead.

Byron shrugged. "Who hasn't?"

"Not that kind of dream!"

"Man, smoke what you want to smoke—weed, pole, I don't judge nobody." Byron ate another serving-spoon full of scrambled eggs.

"I'm not—"

"If you ever decide you are, give me that French chick's number and I'll take care of her." Byron gave the air a cursory pelvic thrust. "When were you going to tell me Trivia had a friend, you greedy son of a bitch?"

Ray sat on a stool and took a glass of water that Byron offered. "You met Audubon?"

"Autobahn sounds German. It was Joan, or Jeanne, or something."

Ray coughed water into his palm; Byron and Audubon on a first-name basis was the last thing he needed. "She isn't really French," he said.

"I don't really care," Byron said. "She can make French sounds."

"Back up. What happened last night?"

"Last time we spoke, you were about to bum a ride, you told me that someone's out to get us, then I never heard from you again, which was awesome. Then I got this weird, intense feeling that you were in trouble. You should probably delete the last couple voicemails I sent you." Byron sometimes got angry when Ray made him worried.

"Sorry," Ray said. "I had a rough night."

"Figured that when Jeanne called me on your cell asking for a place to dump your corpse. I was going to bitch her out for stuffing you in the trunk until I smelled your stank ass. Plus, her car's a rental."

Ray looked at his boxer-briefs and back to Byron. "Did you—?"

"I'm an EMT. I've dealt with shit. You need to learn to handle yours."

Ray nodded towards the couch. "You stayed here all night?"

"Didn't want you to drown in vomit or something. Fortunately, you were screaming most of the night." The alarm on Byron's phone sounded. When he turned it off, the timer reset to thirty minutes. Byron's face was puffy, and he had dark circles under his eyes.

"You get any sleep?"

"Some. I had a dream too. I turned into a—"

"Caterpillar?"

"Fuck no." Byron spread his arms like wings. "Pterodactyl. I was flying over this endless beach—pure white sands, emerald waves, and a bunch of seagulls that were scared shitless of me —and there were all these Israeli girl soldiers laid out on the sand, oiling their guns. Then all these Palestinian girls came onto the beach wearing, what do you call it, parkas. But they had bikinis on underneath the parkas. The Israelis and the Palestinians started building a wall in the sand, and I was about to find out if a pterodactyl can cry, but it was a volleyball net, and they started inflating these beach balls that had globes printed on them. And I thought to myself, this is it. World peace."

"Wow," Ray said.

Byron held up his cell phone. "This fucker went off right when it was getting good. Listen, you want to fight the power, I understand. You want to try psychedelics, I understand. You want to hog all the hippie chicks and French models for yourself, I definitely understand. But sometimes you need someone with you that you can trust. Get me?"

Ray nodded. "You're a good friend, Byron."

"Hell, I know that." Byron lifted him in a bear-hug. "Now go get ready."

"For what?"

"We're taking Frazer down, aren't we? Let's get some evidence."

--

"Piss off, we're closed." Rony stood in the doorway of the Kangaroo, leaning on a mop. A piece of cardboard taped over shattered door glass said, "Pardon our mess."

"What happened?" Byron said.

"Turns out if you shoot a man to death, he craps all over the floor." Rony waved his fists like he'd just won the lottery.

"You shot someone?" Ray said.

"Not me," Rony said. "Some junkie tried to rob the place and a cop took him out. Scary guy. I thought he was going to take me out, too."

"We need your help," Ray said.

Rony closed and locked the door. "I don't help criminals." He slapped Officer Huntsman's business card against the glass.

"We aren't criminals," Ray said.

"You got it twisted," Byron said.

Rony stared Ray down. "He said you set those forest fires."

Ray met his gaze. "I love the woods. I would never do anything to hurt them."

"He said you sell drugs to kids," Rony said.

Ray elbowed Byron.

"You meant me?" Byron said.

Rony glared at him.

"You mean like, kids?" Byron held his hand a meter off the ground. "Or people under the age of eighteen? Because I would never sell to kids."

"I'm calling the police." Rony walked towards the counter.

"Wait!" Ray said. "Byron grows a ton of weed in the forest!"

"Dude, shut up," Byron said.

"I'll be sure to mention that," Rony said. "Hey! Get away from there!"

Ray yanked the cardboard off the door and stepped through the hole. "His plants burned down! Why would he burn down his own weed?"

"Yeah. Why would I do that?" Byron followed Ray, knocking safety glass out of the door.

Rony set his shotgun on the counter. "Talk."

"The guy setting the fires was in here just the other night." Ray pointed to the display of gas cans. "He bought lighter fluid and gasoline. I bought condoms and Gatorade. How would I set a fire with that?"

"My boy's resourceful, but he ain't no Eagle Scout," Byron said.

"Jim Frazer, my boss, is setting the fires," Ray said. "That cop must be working with him. You're the only other person who saw Frazer in here."

"Sounds like it's none of my business," Rony said.

Byron pointed to the video camera. "At least give us that thing, man."

"It's not real," Rony said.

"It's not?" Byron had made the same facial expression when Ray had explained about unicorns.

"If you don't help us, the whole forest will burn, and everyone in it will die," Ray said.

"He means everything. He's a tree hugger," Byron said.

"I know who he means," Rony said.

Ray gave him a nod.

Byron frowned. "Am I the only one here not on shrooms?"

"Fine, I'll testify or whatever. But I want something in return, if I'm going to risk my life." Rony pointed at Ray. "Not from you." He pointed at Byron. "You. Stay the hell away from my sister."

"Screw you," Byron said.

"Screw you, Nancy Drew," Rony said. "Get out of my store."

"Wait!" Ray said to Rony. He pulled Byron aside. "Come on, man."

"Bro," Byron whispered, "you know I'll do anything for you. But this is about principle."

"Don't do it for me. Do it for the forest and everyone that lives in it. You love the Green as much as I do."

"Not as much as I love the pink. Light brown, in his sister's case."

"Ok, ok, let me try something." Ray broke the huddle and addressed Rony. "Your sister is an adult. She can make her own decisions, even if they're bad ones."

"Hey!" Byron said.

"She's eighteen," Rony said. "That doesn't mean she's an adult."

Ray held up his palms. "Your sister's sexuality belongs to her and no one else. I know you think you're protecting her, but you should respect her agency, or you're just perpetuating centuries of—."

Rony pointed to the door. "See you later, Hardly Boys."

"Agency?" Byron whispered to Ray. "What the hell was that? He's not going to believe you're a spy."

"No, it's— I'm trying, okay?" Ray said.

"Well, try harder!" Byron cuffed Ray on the shoulder.

Ray raised his arm like an auctioneer. "Six months!"

"I didn't agree to that!" Byron yanked Ray's arm down.

"One year." Rony said, remaining cool.

"Hell no!" Byron said.

"Byron, we're going to have to make sacrifices to take down Frazer." Ray said.

"I don't see you sacrificing anything," Byron said.

"Fine, we'll find another way," Ray said. "I didn't realize you were so into her."

Byron reddened. "What did you say?"

"You heard me."

Byron slapped himself on the cheeks and repeated his mantra: "Abundance mentality." He took a deep breath and released it. "One year, damn it! And you tell us everything you know about that cop."

"Deal." Rony put Officer Huntsman's business card on the counter.

"...and you give me a Gatorade," Byron said.

"Dollar forty-nine," Rony said.

"Fine." Byron slapped his credit card on the counter.

Rony pointed to the sticker on the register and grinned.

--

Byron and Ray drove towards the Field Unit. Ray flipped the business card over in his hand. "Says his name is Huntsman."

"Not the first dirty cop I've tangled with. Read the receipt Rony gave us, see if it tells us anything about this guy."

Ray unwrinkled the receipt, and his mouth went dry. "Can of orange spray paint and a bug bomb."

"Weird," Byron said.

Byron had believed Ray about urine and unicorns; he would believe Ray about magic and the Golden Bough as well. If Ray told him the truth, Byron would follow him to the gates of Hell.

"Don't take him lightly," Ray said. "I have a really bad feeling about him."