She swears she will not look at me as she gets dressed to make money. Brendan Sheelagh Bikko is sick of posing. She has just ridden in from the desert and avoided the birds and the virus, and now I am another obstacle, peering. “One of us will kiss the other on our deathbed,” she says, “And whichever one of us is left will have to learn how to be alone when taking a sounding of our surroundings.” I am off to hunt down a man who traps coyotes, but Bikko’s words are a trap of my own. What are my surroundings now?
