There is a visitor center at the top. There is a restaurant. Shasta stands at a rail and looks down. She sees trees. She sees rocks. She sees dirt. She sees Albuquerque. Albuquerque is down there with people and cars and bars and churches and houses and shopping malls. Sam is down there. Sam is an asshole. Shasta can find out for herself. She doesn’t want to. Zeus may or may not be a serial killer. Zeus is not dying. Everyone is dying, slow. Paco is sober. Raven is psychic. Kessa has written a book of poetry and will probably write more. Maggie Harper is alone in her big house. Tyson is reciting poetry to the walls. There are toilets to clean, always. “Well. Shit,” Shasta says. She is hungry. She walks down the path to the restaurant. It looks fancy. She sits in a booth. The prices on the menu are steep. Shasta orders fried mushrooms and a Corona. She thinks of Curtis as she eats and drinks. If she were with Curtis she would not be alone. That is no reason to move back to Texas, where she is miserable. I’ll be miserable anywhere. There’s some truth to that, yes. I’m broken. I’m mangled. I’ve made too many mistakes. I do not believe there is a god who can save me. I wish I had a god to give it all to. I do not. I am here, in pieces. Now when my mother asks, “Did you ride the tram?” I can tell her, “Si, mi madre. I rode the tram to the top of the mountain. I had some mushrooms and beer. My stomach, at least, was happy.”

 

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