Pagan Midnight
I was standing on a highway in Mississippi, in the stifling, humid heat of August. The interchange signs told me I had just gotten off 1-55 South where it met U.S. 82—wherever that was. My most recent ride disappeared in the distance.
Several moments before, the keilin had changed direction again, in broad daylight. It had raised its one-horned, equine head over some bushes, looked at me, and then had hidden again. I had screamed frantically for my ride to stop, and here I was.
The keilin was gone, though; the brush was empty. I wiped the sweat off my hands onto my jeans and squinted up into the bright blue sky. The sun looked like maybe five o’clock. I sighed. The keilin did not step on anything living, even plants. It favored pavement, and often followed the roads.
I s
