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real,” Atomic told me before he went into the restaurant, “whatever you see is just acting, okay?”
    They stumble down the block. Soon both of the women guide Atomic up the steps of a condo. I see the lights turn on inside. I crouch right underneath the window. There are no cars around and I hear the clinking of glassware inside. It’s snowing now, huge flakes.
    I wait for Atomic to tie them up and let me in, but there’s nothing. I wait ten minutes, twenty minutes, still nothing. While I’m standing there, a car pulls up across the street and honks at me. And then it honks again. I hear someone call out for Rita.
    â€œRita?” he says again. I do not answer him because that’s not my name. I do not answer him because I’m hiding in some bushes outside a stranger’s condo.
    â€œRita?” he yells out. “Everything okay?”
    I climb out of the shrubbery and see Graham sitting in his idling car.
    â€œI saw you run out of the bar,” he says. “I’m not normally this creepy. I just wanted to make sure you got home okay.”
    I try to look inside the condo, but the blinds are closed. All I can see is the flicker of candlelight; all I can hear now are murmurings, maybe some light moaning. I know that I need to go now, that waiting here any longer will be horrible for me.
    â€œHold on,” I tell Graham.
    I grab a piece of landscape brick from a retaining wall in front of the condo and I rear back and throw it through the window. I watch as the glass explodes and then I hear the screams from inside. I sprint to Graham’s car.
    â€œDrive,” I tell him.
    A few blocks later, I realize I’m still wearing my nametag, “Ms. Rita Johnstone,” and I rip it off me. I crumple it up and throw it out the window.
    â€œMy real name’s Ellen,” I tell Graham.
    Graham turns left, heads back toward downtown.
    â€œNice to meet you, Ellen,” he says. “Where do you want me to take you?”
    â€œShow me something,” I say.
    We drive for a few minutes and then Graham pulls up next to a construction site. It’s about half done, mostly just girders, the outline of what it will be.
    â€œThis is what I’m working on now. It’s an up-and-coming neighborhood,” he tells me. “There’s a coffee shop going up over there. There’s going to be a new grocery store around the corner.”
    Graham gets out of the car and I follow him. We stare through the chain link fence into the construction site. Graham keeps talking and pointing. I’m cold, so I lean into him and he puts his arm around me. The snow has placed a soft cover over everything hard and I close my eyes and turn toward his face and wait patiently for him to press his lips against my lips.

THE WEDDING PARTY

    C antwell found the dead horse near the dry creek. There was a neon-green Post-it note slapped on the horse’s flank with the word “Sorry” written on it. The word was scribbled in blue glitter pen and the “o” in “sorry” was shaped like a goddamn heart.
    The early morning sky was orange but would not be for much longer. Cantwell’s bad hip said rain, but his trick knee said no way. He leaned against the hood of his truck and pulled out his cell phone and dialed up Lupe. While he waited for him to answer, Cantwell’s eyes scanned back across the pasture. The destruction started at the county road. Muddy tire ruts that dropped down from the tar. A gaping hole in the west-edge fence. Shitty after shitty spirographed in the pasture grass. The horse lay at the end of a long skid, its ribs bayonetted through its midriff. Around its torso was a pool of blood that hadn’t yet settled into the loam. Cantwell fished the bottle of whiskey he’d dug out of the snake-bite kit and took a long pull.
    â€œHello?” Lupe said.
    â€œWhen you come in,” Cantwell told him, “bring your digging