Mason

They had lost a few chickens already, and she didn't want anything getting brave while they were gone.

I drove out there on a Thursday afternoon.

The property sat off a rough dirt road that cut through low desert, sagebrush, and patches of scrubby juniper.

There were old fence lines everywhere, some still standing and some half buried in sand.

The house itself looked normal enough in daylight.

Faded tan siding, a metal roof, a satellite dish, a few dead vehicles out near the barn, and a back porch with a motion light above it.

The porch faced a wide, empty stretch of yard that ran to the chicken coop and then out toward a dry wash.

Behind that, the land rose into low, rocky hills.

Carla walked me through everything before they left.

She showed me where the dog food was, where the breaker box was, how to jiggle the back door because it liked to stick, and where her husband kept the shotgun.

I laughed when she showed me that, because I thought she was being over the top.

She didn't laugh back.

She just said, ''It's not for people.

It's mostly for coyotes.

But don't go outside at night unless you have to.''

That stuck with me, but not in a scary way at first.

I figured she meant rattlesnakes or coyotes or just the basic rule of not wandering around a rural property in the dark.

Then she said something else while we were standing by the back door.

She pointed out toward the hills and said, Sometimes you hear things out there.

Dogs, babies, people calling.