COYOTES

Sometimes a thing's not a thing until you say it out loud; until you hear the words with your own ears.

Coyotes.

They show up in November. It's all Alderton talks about. That, and the fact everyone thinks they're a bad omen for our town. Alderton is like that. Too many people leading boring lives, grabbing drama whenever they can.

Still, no one remembers there ever being coyotes here, not even Charlie Hawkins, who is going to be one-hundred-years old next week.

"Why are they here?" Jazz asks at breakfast.

"Who knows,” I say. “Probably swam over from the mainland.” I drag the butter across my toast with my knife, but the butter is cold, and it rips a hole in the stale white bread.

Jazz frowns. "Jessa's mom said it means sickness; that people are going to die of the plague or something, like the way they did in the olden days." Her eyes are bright; the idea of a potential catastrophe almost as exciting as the time Brad Pitt drove through Alderton on his way to make that movie in the mountains—the one about the family ranch, where the girl sleeps with all those brothers. They say he bought a coffee from Jerry's Diner, as well of one of Wanda Lusk's butter tarts. To this day, Wanda tells anyone who'll listen, about the tarts.

"Brad said it was the best thing he'd ever tasted," she'll say to her captive audience at the counter. "Said he'd be back for more. Probably be coming back any day now."

I doubt Brad Pitt ever mentioned Wendy's butter tarts, and he'd have to be crazy to come back to Alderton ... for anything.

"Don't believe anything Jessa's moms says," I tell Jazz. "She's a total coke head." I plug the hole in my toast with a clot of partially congealed strawberry jam.

Jasmine frowns harder.

"Hurry up and eat, Jazz," I tell my sister. "We're gonna be late again."

"Can you drive us today?" she asks, her head turning furtively to the window. "You know; because of the coyotes?"

"We'll be fine, Jazz. Besides..." I jump up and hold my arms in front of me, Bruce Lee style. "I know Kung Fu!"

"No, you don't," Jazz says. "Don't lie."

I sit back down. "Just eat, sis," I say. "I'm going to check on mom."

Jasmine stares at her bowl of cereal. Pokes at the bobbing cheerios floating in the milk with her index finger. "She's not there. I checked already."

My sister is right. The pile of clean laundry I dumped on Mom's bed is still there—the pillows untouched against the headboard.

"Maybe she worked late!" Jazz calls out. "Or stayed the night at Dianne's."

"Maybe," I call back. But Mom didn't work yesterday; I called the diner at lunch to check. I always check.

A sound outside makes me raise my head and I go to the window and push the curtain back a little more. The laurel bush shakes as something moves behind its leaves. I watch in disbelief as a coyote, skinny as a rake, emerges into the pale morning light, a fat pup dangling from her mouth. She has injured her back leg. I can tell by the way her paw juts out in the wrong direction.

I watch the mother coyote carry her struggling offspring across the road, through the fence, and drop it carefully on the ground, whereupon she regurgitates what little food she has in her stomach for it to eat.

That, I think, is some serious parenting.

That, I think, is how it's done.

Jazz watches beside me. “Ready?” I ask her.

She nods, but we both stand there a little longer, silent, and staring at the coyotes.