Then I am standing in the red moolight in the back field, holding the torn envelope in my hand. Coyotes yammer nearby. The white night air feels like cool water on my skin, my forehead, the tops of my hands. I reach for your letter, wanting to hold it to my nose again to smell your faint scent lingering, but when I do this I see that the paper you'd written has become a grease of fish innards. Their sudden pungence arrests me.