by Jamie Iredell
At K-mart I bought boots stitched from the remains of dinosaurs. They lasted what a white person’s idea of a native would call many moons. Me and the boots hiked the mountains west of the Black Rock Desert, this landscape thorned and poppied, hissing with rattlers. The desert itself was alkaline, the dust silty-fine, so that it worked into everything, even your skin, and started grinding things apart. I slipped these same boots past my toes for a day trip to The Lake with Jon. Everyone says “The Lake” like that in Reno, because people who live at “The Lake” have money, and those living in the meadows give blood. Jon’s Mercury Cougar had rust damage that spotted it like pimples. Jon didn’t even live in Reno. He lived in the desert. That should tell you something about his skin.