If you can kill it, you can take and wear its skin, and that will be enough to fool the ignorant and inattentive, and as they rule this place it will be enough to pass unseen. A swamp-heavy heat came up from the fresh-cut grass, piled thick across the lawns, a vegetative ache in the nostrils, blowing north in waves, like a field of filled dumpsters baking in the noonday sun. Above that, however, you can smell other features, becoming more prominent as summer marches into fall; someone was cooking steaks, somewhere a few blocks over, and perhaps also asparagus. More distant still was the scent of burning leaves, and diesel fumes from the interstate, and the smell no one notices, the smell of the people, shuffling through their lives, not the sharp tang of fresh sweat nor the thicker unwashed grime nor the myriad scents they use to disguise themselves, but a baser smell, more fundamental and permanent, the scent which keeps the deer in the fields and the wolves in the hills, the scent which gives up the whole of each person's life to anyone willing and able to sift the information from the air, sniffing at genetic packets like a map of the nerves and secrets of every person on this earth. Monday I call three wolf cubs from the hills and they became part of my nervous system; through minor cranial surgery I could overclock their parietal lobes and thus pinpoint very distant objects by triangulating the target, which allowed me to catch and kill devils. At night they would run alongside the invisible hearse and scare away deer, until the wolves no longer remembered our bond, and broke left, like a fighter squadron, into the cattails and milkweed lining the road.

the exit is hidden within the exit