Page 2 of Coyote

He gave me a look and didn't move.

I ran the grinder.

He came up off the floor with both hands clapped over his ears, knife and all.

I lifted my thumb off the switch.

He glared at me.

"I warned you." I shook the grounds into the filter. "Those tags they sew into the back of new shirts drive me half out of my head. I cut every one of them out. I can't do crowds. I talk too much when I'm nervous, which I'm doing now, if you hadn't noticed."

He lowered the knife another inch.

"Rafe says I've got no idea when to stop. He's right. I never have." I held my hand out behind me, palm up. "Pass me two of those tortillas."

He looked at the bag, then at me, then back at the bag.

"Keep the rest. I'll make more."

He opened the bag one-handed and set a tortilla in my palm from as far away as his arm would reach.

I filled it with eggs and beans, grated cheese over the top, and stopped with the salsa spoon in my hand. "You take it hot?"

He lifted one shoulder.

I spooned the salsa on heavily, rolled the burrito, and held it out.

He took it in his free hand with the knife still raised in the other and ate like he thought I might change my mind and snatch it back. I turned toward the stove and started another so he wouldn't have to eat under my eyes.

Pearl left my side and lay down a foot from his knee. He watched her settle and kept eating. When he finished the first burrito, I put the second one on a plate and set it on the floor beside him without asking.

He stared at it.

"Nobody's keeping count," I said.

I'd put it on the floor like he was Pearl. He didn't seem to mind, and I decided not to look too hard at how I'd known he wouldn't.

That was enough. He picked it up and ate.

I poured two cups of coffee and set one beside his foot. "Sugar's on the shelf behind you."

He didn't move while I watched. I turned back to the pan. The tin opened, the spoon went in three times, and the cup scraped off the floor.

The snake came out while he drank. She poured down his arm and hung her head over his wrist, aimed at my plate.

"She got a name?"

He stopped chewing. "Nimue."

"Nimue." I didn't reach for her. "She take mice or eggs?"

"Both."

"There's a carton in the refrigerator. Put a couple in your pocket for her."

He looked at the refrigerator but didn't move toward it.

A board creaked over our heads. Then another.