Mason

He used pliers, dropped it into a plastic bag, and threw it in a burn barrel later.

I asked him why he did that.

He said because I don't want it here.

My mom didn't want me driving that road anymore, at least not at night.

I told her I had to get to work somehow.

She said I could stay with my uncle on late nights, or switch shifts.

I thought she was overreacting, but not really.

I was scared too.

I just didn't want my life rearranged around something I couldn't explain.

A few days later, I went back with my uncle during daylight to look at the spot where I first stopped.

I don't know why I wanted to see it.

Maybe I thought daylight would make it normal.

It didn't.

There were marks on the shoulder where my tires had stopped.

There were scuffs in the dust where I had walked.

And there were prints around that area, but they did not look clean anymore because wind had messed them up.

Some looked like coyote tracks.

Some looked too long.

A few looked almost like a hand had pressed into the dust, but not a human hand.

More like four long points and a palm shape.