Talker 25

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When Trish called and begged me to go dragon hunting, I should have trusted my instincts. Now I’m stuck in a car with her and a pair of wannabe farmboys whose idea of Friday night fun is sneaking onto the rez to get their pictures taken next to Old Man Blue.

While she’s riding shotgun, laughing at Konrad Kline’s lame jokes about tonguing lizards, I’m crammed in the back with Preston Williams, a self-proclaimed dragonologer with greasy black hair, clumps of facial fuzz on his cheeks, and beady brown eyes that too often find their way to my neckline.

Konrad steers his BMW to the side of the road and parks next to the cornfield that adjoins the rez. He and Trish walk a few yards ahead of us, their flashlights making zigzags in the darkness, the soft crunch of trampled corn mingling with their whispers. Preston chirps in my ear about his favorite band—Loki’s Grunts—or maybe it’s a band he’s forming. I stop listening, but nod and smile as my gaze drifts skyward.

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