The Powder Hole
Stepping onto the trail, I focus on the ground under my feet and I can almost see the footprints we made that night, the two of us lifting our heavy burden over the dunes, struggling with it here and stopping to rest there. Before hitting the trail that night, I dug a ditch and filled it with the dead man’s clothes: black hoodie, black T-shirt and jeans, black boots. The underwear I let the dead man keep, along with his socks. Dousing the pile with lighter fluid, I lit a match and set it all aflame. I sat down on the soft sand and watched the clothes burn while Tiger was inside the generator house doing the wet work: breaking teeth, clipping off fingertips, and gouging out any noticeable scar tissue. It was after he brought the body outside that I had him lay it out on a r
