Alicia Atkins

Only, the texture is wrong, and even the color is more ivory than white.

It's hard, not yielding like mushroom flesh.

Pale spiderweb lines run over its surface, meeting at the apex of the dome.

I know what it is.

The same way I know that there was a serial killer who committed vulgar and horrifying acts in at least four states, and managed to father a child in prison before his execution even when I can't remember his name.

Maybe that's why it's so appropriate that I found it.

This human skull.

I don't call the cops.

There are several reasons for this, beyond the vague worry I have that I'm wrong, that it's not a skull.

That when I go back with the shovel to free it from the earth it has embedded itself in, I will only find a large ball-shaped fungus after all.

Or that it won't be human, but an animal's cranium.

I'll have wasted their time and made myself look foolish.

There's more, of course.

I had far too much to do with the cops when the accident occurred.

The interviews, the stern looks, the crossed arms.

The guarded expressions that condemned me through their professionally cultivated lack of curiosity.

The way I felt them blaming me while they couched their conclusions and casual questions.

When did you leave the house?

Who was in the driver's seat?

Where were the others sitting?