Twentynine Palms. Daniel Pyne

      “I’m sorry. Truly. It doesn’t matter. I’m just so happy. You can see that, can’t you? I don’t know why, and I don’t know why I started to laugh, something about you talking and the coyotes barking was funny, I laughed, and I couldn’t stop. I don’t know why.”

      Jack’s not angry. “But you think I’m sort of full of shit.”

      “No.” Mona kisses him, giggling again. “Yes. No”—her arms around him—“no I don’t. Eventually I won’t.” She fills his arms, warm, alive, and everything, and Jack is happy and won’t start worrying what she means by eventually until much later.