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and plunge into the blackness.
    “That’s a depressing fucking monument,” Kristen said.
    Marydale laughed in surprise. “No shit. Everybody loves the Poison Well. Tristess has a day . People dress up. I say it was just bad, fucking luck. A bunch of pioneers got this far, probably killed how many Indians, and then died from drinking the water.”
    Kristen leaned over, too, the crowns of their heads almost touching.
    “What do you get if you throw a coin in? Bad karma?”
    “Must be,” Marydale said. “I’ve thrown a lot of coins in.”

6
    After work the following day, Kristen put Marydale’s address in her phone’s GPS, but no directions were necessary. She scanned the map. It might as well have said, Go north until you pass the end of nowhere.
     When Gulch Creek Road turned to gravel with no sign of reverting back to pavement, Kristen called Donna.
    “Hey, listen. I’m going to give you an address,” Kristen said. “On the off chance that you never hear from me again, this is where my body’s at.”
    “What? Where are you?”
    The only sign of human habitation—besides the road itself—was a collection of buildings at the end of a long driveway. They looked like litter swept up by a giant broom and deposited at the foot of the Firesteed Mountains.
    “I’m looking at a room to rent. I met this waitress at the local diner.”
    “Do you really think she’s dangerous?”
    “I’m kidding,” Kristen said.
    Gravel rumbled under the car as Kristen neared the end of the drive. Marydale’s house looked like a child’s drawing, too narrow to be real, with a peaked roof and four identical windows. A porch circled the house, and Marydale sat on the porch swing, her dog at her feet, a book in her hands. The whole scene looked like the soft-focus shot at the end of a pharmaceutical commercial, the one that played while a compassionate voice-over listed the side effects, like dry mouth and instant death. Only this was the real thing and actually beautiful.
    “I’ve got nothing to worry about,” Kristen said in a tone she kind of hoped conveyed I’ve got a lot to worry about, being such an important public figure, but, naturally, I have everything under control.
    “Kristen. You came!” Marydale called as Kristen got out of her car.
    She smiled, and Kristen could see the dark space where her tooth should have been.
    “I’ll show you around. It’s not much, but it’s nicer than the Almost Home.” Marydale pushed the front door open. “How was your day?”
    “The public defender keeps referring to me as a female attorney; a female should understand these things.”
    “Breeding stock. It’s good for the gene pool,” Marydale said so seriously, it took Kristen a moment to realize she was joking.
    “I thought people hated out-of-towners.”
    “Love-hate,” Marydale said, looking coquettishly over her shoulder.
    Inside, a faded portrait hung by the front door, featuring a girl of about ten and two older women dressed in so many sequins they looked like drag queens.
    “Three generations of rodeo queens,” Marydale said, following Kristen’s gaze.
    Kristen looked at the child.
    “That’s you.”
    The girl’s smile was wide and practiced. The mother and grandmother looked like they were separated by no more than fifteen years.
    “Three years running,” Marydale said. “My mother always said you could be pretty or you could be lucky.” She touched her fingers to the woman in the center of the photograph. She clicked her tongue. “We were pretty. Come on.”
    The tour of the house took five minutes. Downstairs there was a living room, dining room, kitchen, bathroom, and a pantry Marydale called the canning cellar. Upstairs there was a bathroom and two bedrooms, both of them furnished but impersonal, one with stacks of library books on the dresser.
    “I’ve been using this one, but we can trade if you like.” Marydale tucked a length of hair behind her ear. “I know you’re probably used to