C. E. Murphy - Walker Papers 3 - Coyote Dreams

C.E. MURPHY

COYOTE

DREAMS

www.LUNA-Books.com

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

COMING NEXT MONTH

Most especially, I want to say thank you to my husband, Ted. The kernel of this series was his, and I

quite literally wouldn’t be here without him. I love you, hon. Let’s hope there are lots of Walker Papers

to celebrate in the future.

Thanks are also due to cover artist Hugh Syme; my editor, Mary-Theresa Hussey; and my agent,

Jennifer Jackson; as well as my usual suspects, particularly Silkie, who once more went beyond the call

of duty in doing unpaid research and catching my embarrassing spelling errors.

For Ted,

because I wouldn’t be here without him

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CHAPTER ONE

Tuesday, July 5, 8:58 a.m.

Someone had driven a tire iron into my skull. I could tell, because centered in my left temple was a vast

throbbing pain that could only come from desperate injury. It felt like there were a thousand vicious

gnomes leaping up and down on the iron, trying to increase the size of the hole in my head. I had the idea

that once it was split open far enough, they would run down the length of metal and dive into the soft,

gooey gray matter of my brain and have themselves a little gnomish pool party.

Neither of my eyes would open. I fumbled a hand up to poke at them and encountered sufficient goo

that I took a moment to consider the possibility that the gnomes were already in my head, had overfilled it

and were now flowing out my sinuses and tear ducts. It wasn’t a pretty thought. Then again, nothing

could be a pretty thought when some-one’d smashed a tire iron into my head.

I rolled my fingers across my eyelashes, trying to work some of the ook out of them. My heart was

beating like a rabbit on speed, except when it paused with an alarming little arrhythmia that made me start

hyperventilating. I hoped I was dying, because anything else seemed anticlimactic with all that going on.

Besides, I had some experience with dying. It was kind of old hat, and so far it hadn’t stuck.

Unlike my eyes. I physically pried one open with my fingers. The red numbers on my alarm clock

jumped into it and stabbed it with white-hot pokers. I whimpered and let it close again, wondering why

the hell I was in my bed, if I was dying. Usually I found myself dying in more exotic locations, like diners

or city parks.

A whisper of memory drifted through my brain in search of something to attach itself to. The

department’s Fourth of July picnic had been the day before. I’d attended, feeling saucy and cute in a pair

of jeans shorts and a tank top. I’m five foot eleven and a half.Cute and I are not generally on speaking

terms, so the feeling had been a novel one and I’d been enjoying it. The outfit had shown off a rare tan

and the fact that I’d lost twelve pounds in the past few months, and I’d gotten several compliments.

Those were as rare as me rubbing elbows withcute , so it’d been a good day.

Which did nothing to explain how it had ended with a tire iron separating the bones of my cranium. I

walked my fingers over the left side of my head, cautiously. My fingers encountered hair too short to be

tangled, but no tools of a mechanic’s trade. I pressed my hand against my temple, admiring how nice and

cool it felt against the splitting headache, and the memory found something to attach itself to.

Morrison. My boss. Smiling fatuously down at a petite redhead in Daisy Mae shorts that hugged her

va-va-va-voom curves. Right about then somebody’d offered me a beer, and it’d sounded like an

awfully good idea. I tried to close my eyes in a pained squint, but I’d never gotten them open, so I only

wrinkled them and felt crusty goo crinkle around my lashes.

The only other thing I remember clearly was a bunch of guys from the shop swooping down on me as

they—each— bore a fifth of Johnnie Walker. With my last name being Walker, they figured me and

Johnnie must be cousins and that gave me a leg up on them. I was pretty sure my leg up had turned into a

slide down the slow painful descent of hangover hell.

I gave up on rubbing my eyes and prodding my head, and instead flopped my arm out to the side with a

heartfelt grunt.

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Unfortunately, the grunt wasn’t mine.

It turned out my eyes were willing to come open after all, with sufficient force behind the attempt. I

wasn’t sure I had eyelashes left after the agony of ripping through loaded-up sleep, but at least the

subsequent tears did something to wash away some of the goop. I was out of bed and halfway across the

room with a slipper in hand, ready to fling it like the deadly weapon it wasn’t, when I noticed I wasn’t

wearing any clothes.

Neither was the blurry-eyed guy who’d grunted when I’d smacked him. At least not on his upper half.

He pushed up on his elbows while I scrubbed at my eyes with my free hand. I’d gone to sleep with my

contacts in, which partly explained why there was such a lot of gunk in my lashes, but I didn’t believe

what my twenty-twenty vision was telling me. I was pretty certain the goo had to be impairing it

somehow, because—

—becausedamn, sister!

“Easy on the eyes” didn’t cover it. He was so easy on the eyes that they just sort of rolled right off him

as precursor to a girl turning into a puddle of—

All right, there was way too much goo going on in my morning. “Who the hell are you?” I demanded,

then coughed. I sounded like I’d been on a three-day drunk. In my defense, I knew it wasn’t more than a

one-night drunk, but Jesus.

“Mark,” he said in a sleepy, good-natured sort of rumble, and grinned at me. “Who’re you?”

“What’re youdoing here?” I asked instead of answering. He arched one eyebrow and looked my naked

self over, then lifted the covers a few inches to inspect his own lower half.

“I’d say I’m havin’ a real good night.” He grinned again and flopped back onto my bed, arms folded

behind his head. His hair was this amazing color between blond and brown, not dishwater, but

glimmering with shadows and streaks of light. His folded-back arms displayed smoothly muscular triceps.

Who ever heard of someone having noticeably beautiful triceps, for heaven’s sake? The puff of hair in his

armpits was, at least, an ordinary brown and not waxed away. That would’ve been more than I could

handle.

“So who’re you?” he asked again, pleasantly. More than pleasantly. More like the cat who’d stolen the

cream, eaten the canary and then knocked the dog out of the sunbeam so he could loll in it undisturbed.

For a moment I was tempted to open the curtains so I could see if he’d stretch out and expose his belly

to the morning sunlight. God should be so good as to give every woman such a view once in her life.

The thing was—well, there were many things. Many, many things and all of them led back to me being

unable to think of the last time I’d done something so astoundingly stupid.

No, that wasn’t true. I knew exactly the last time I’d done something so astoundingly stupid. I’d been

fifteen, and I’d have hoped the intervening thirteen years of experience would be enough to keep me

from doing it again. Only I hadn’t been shitface drunk then, and if the God who was kind enough to

provide the gorgeous man in my bed was genuinely kind, there wouldn’t be the same consequences

there’d been then.

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Thepoint was, Mark was so far out of my league it wasn’t even funny. I didn’t think I’d said that out

loud until he pushed up on an elbow again and looked me over a second time before saying, “I beg to

differ,” in a mildly affronted tone. Then curiosity clearly got the better of him as he sat all the way up,

drawing his knees up and looping his arms around them as he squinted at me. He had a tattoo on his right

shoulder, a butterfly whose colors were so bright it had to be new. His biceps were magnificent. He had

smooth sleek muscle where most people didn’t even have flab. It was like he took up more space than

he really ought to.

Which, in my experience, suggested he probably wasn’t human.

I didn’t realize I’d saidthat out loud, either, until he threw his head back and laughed, then scooted

around on my bed like he belonged there, giving me a curious grin. “Whatis your name?”

“Joanne,” I finally answered. “Joanne Walker. SPD,” I added faintly, for no evident reason. Maybe I

thought announcing I worked for the police department would provide me with some kind of physical

shielding.

It struck me that clothes would be a lot more effective in that arena. Still clutching my slipper as a

weapon, I scampered for the bathroom and pulled my rarely used robe off the door.

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Joanne Walker,” he called after me. I stuck my head out the

door incredulously.

“Is that what you call it?”

“What should I call it?” He shrugged, a beautiful movement like glass flowing. “I’m gettin’ a kinda

freaked-out vibe from you, ma’am. You want I should vacate the premises?”

“I want you should tell me you had rubbers in your wallet and you don’t anymore, and that you’ve got a

nice clean blood test in your hip pocket. I’ll think about the rest of it after that.” I retreated into the

bathroom again and poked through the garbage nervously. Funny what strikes a girl as relieving in the

midst of mental crisis. Having a naked guy whose name I barely knew in my bed would normally be more

than enough reason to come apart at the seams, but oh no. Give me a little evidence of safe sex despite

drunken revelry and it seemed I could handle the naked guy.

Pity there was no such evidence. Despite that, my hind brain announced it wouldn’t half mind handling

the naked guy. More than once. Which, in fact, I could only presume that I had.

Augh.

“Sorry,” he said. “Still got three in my wallet.”

Three. I stopped poking around in the garbage to stare though the wall at him. “Confident, aren’t you?”

I heard a grin come into his drawl: “Looks like I got cause, ma’am. I had five to begin with,” he added

cheerfully. I lurched to the door so I could stare at him more effectively. I’d developed some unusual

skills lately, but X-ray vision hadn’t been one of them.

“Are you serious?”

“No,” he said, still cheerfully. “Sorry, ma’am.”

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Jesus. I didn’t remember the last time I got laid, or more accurately, I remembered in exquisite, precise

detail, and now it appeared I’d missed an all-nighter of action thanks to way, way too much whiskey in

the jar. That was wrong on so many levels I didn’t even know where to begin.

“Stop calling me ma’am.” For some reason I found the ma’aming kind of charming, and I wasn’t sure I

wanted to be charmed. I wasn’t sure what I wanted at all. All my base impulses were to throw the guy

out and hide under the bed until it all went away. It’d been an approach to life that had worked pretty

well until recently, but a couple of weeks ago it’d become violently clear that the ostrich strategy wasn’t

going to cut it anymore.Violently was the key word: there were two people dead because I’d refused to

step up to the plate when I should have. So much as I wanted to take my slipper and drive Mitch out of

my apartment with it, I kind of thought maybe I should do something adult and sensible, like own up to

my great, huge, flaming mistake and try to cope.

The tire iron reasserted its presence in my skull. I groaned and grabbed my head, trying to focus on a

cool, silver-blue flutter of power that typically resided beneath my breastbone. A hangover, in a

mechanic’s parlance, was essentially an overheated engine—dehydration in any form fit nicely into that

analogy—and helping someone recover from dehydration was in my bag of tricks. I called on that

power, for once selfishly glad to have access to it.

Absolutely nothing happened.

No, that wasn’t true. Reluctance happened, a feeling I’d encountered once before, when I tried healing a

knife cut on my cheek. That cut had left a scar when being stabbed through the chest by a four foot

sword hadn’t: my newly-awakened power’s way of announcing that it thought some things should be

acknowledged and dealt with on a purely human level.

Apparently hangovers fell into that category, too.

I whimpered and dared peek at myself in the mirror while I got a glass of water and fumbled for aspirin.

Aside from the sleepy eyes, I didn’t look nearly as awful as I thought I should. In fact, between the tan,

the mussy hair and what could reasonably be called a rosy, satisfied glow, I actually looked sort of hot.

As in sexy, not overheated, the latter of which being how I’d normally use the word. The robe was even

this nice soft mossy green that played up the hazel in my eyes.

Mitch or Matt or Mark or whatever the hell his name was, appeared in the reflection behind me. He’d

put his jeans on and left the top buttons undone, which was possibly more distracting than him being

naked. My eyes just sort of slid right down his torso and fixated at that little flat bit of belly before more

interesting things got started.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got any more of those?” he asked in a woeful little-boy voice. I flinched,

slammed the aspirin with a gulp of water and handed him the mug without rinsing it or refilling it.

Ordinarily I’d think that was gross, but under the circumstances, being squeamish about swapping a few

bodily fluids seemed hypocritical. Matt seemed to feel the same way, because he took the cup without

comment and put out his other hand for some aspirin. I dropped two in his palm and he popped them,

then sagged against the bathroom wall with a groan and extended the mug again. “More,” he pleaded,

putting enough pathos into the croaked word that I erupted a startled giggle. He gave me an adorable

wan grin in return and I got him some more water, then took the cup back and drank another fourteen

ounces myself. When I was done I felt like my equilibrium had been restored, which I knew perfectly

well was a big fat lie, but I planned to run with it, anyway.

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“So.” I leaned on the counter and looked at his reflection behind me. He was taller than I was by at least

three inches. I couldn’t remember having ever slept with somebody who was taller than me before.

For that matter, I still couldn’t.

My brain wentaugh again and I squinched my face up. Mike’s reflection made concerned eyebrows at

me. “So,” he echoed, as if it might smooth my features out again. It worked, because I forced my own

eyebrows up to make myself stop squinting.

“What was your name again?”

“Mark.”

“Mark. Right.” I pressed my lips together, staring at our reflections. He looked sort of woeful and cute

and headachy, and throwing him out seemed kind of like kicking a puppy. “I don’t suppose you can

cook, Mark.”

He gave me a big bright grin in the mirror. “Just tell me where the kitchen is.”

The problem with my kitchen was it didn’t have anything to cook in it. Mark slapped around the

linoleum floor barefoot and cast me looks of unmitigated dismay as he opened cupboards that would do

Old Mother Hubbard proud. His butterfly shifted subtly with the play of muscle in his shoulder, as if it

might wing away from his skin. I watched it and mumbled, “There are toaster waffles in the freezer.”

It was the best I could do. I had no raw ingredients in my apartment; the only reason there were eggs

was my weakness for fried-egg sandwiches. That was as close to cooking as I got. The rest of it was

frozen dinners and canned soup. Even the frozen dinners were a real step up for me. A year ago it’d

been all about the macaroni and cheese. Since then I’d met a seventy-three-year-old man whose

physique put mine to shame, so I’d started making an effort to eat meals that at least came supplied with

a serving of vegetables. The seventy-three-year-old looked pleased, then started nagging me about my

sodium intake. I couldn’t win.

“How can you have that body and nothing but junk food in your cupboards?” Mark asked when he’d

finished looking behind every door in the kitchen. I looked down at my terry-cloth-clad self and wrinkled

my forehead.

“That body?” I knew I’d lost some weight, but the way he said it you’d think I was a cover model. “I

walk a lot at work,” I added lamely. “Beat cop.”

“It’s not nice to beat cops,” he said, mock-severely. I blinked, and a smile swam into place. At least if I

was picking guys up in fits of drunken idiocy, they were not only handsome, but also even mildly clever.

Speaking of which. “How, um. I mean, who, um. I mean, um.” Okay, only one of us got the Mildly

Clever Badge for the morning, and it sure wasn’t me.

“Barb Bragg is my sister,” he volunteered, somehow managing to translate my garbled question into

something coherent. “Redhead? Yea tall?” He made a gesture around five and a half feet from the floor,

and took a frying pan out of my cupboard. “She’s got some buddies in the North Precinct and got invited

along to the barbeque. I tagged along. Never could resist a woman in uniform.”

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I stared at his shoulders. Nice wide world-supporting shoulders that tapered into a narrow waist and

hips that— “I wasn’t in uniform,” I muttered. He flashed a grin over his shoulder at me. His teeth were

very slightly crooked. It was the only thing that saved him from sheer perfection. He couldn’t possibly be

real, although my dreams weren’t usually this good. “Are you actually real?”

“Guess I can’t resist a woman out of uniform, either. Least-ways not when she can out-arm-wrestle

me.” He did a double take at me. “Am I real? I dunno. Did you want an after-party drunken philosophy

answer, or just my driver’s license?”

“The license would be great.” I was pretty sure the average godling or demon or monster under the bed

didn’t carry one, although I hadn’t thought to ask any of the ones I’d met. I’d try to remember, next time.

Mark arched an eyebrow, then took his wallet out of his back pocket and tossed it to me.

I opened it and pulled out an Arizona state driver’s license that had a relievingly bad picture of Mark,

along with his birth date—he was two years younger than me—and an organ donor’s stamp. A knot I

didn’t know was there untied beneath my heart. I could look up his license number at the precinct, but

the fact that he even had ID was an awfully good start. I put it away and let out a fwoosh of air. “Did I

really beat you arm wrestling? You must’ve been really shitfaced.” My biceps weren’t sore and I was

sure I didn’t have the upper-body strength to match his smooth muscles in a fair fight.

Not soreseemed rather important there for a moment, but Mark laughed, which was surprisingly

distracting. He looked even brighter and prettier when he laughed, just all around sparkling with geniality.

I kind of liked it.

“Either that or I know what hill to die on.” In the time it’d taken me to peruse his ID, he’d taken over my

kitchen, and now appeared to be making omelets. I hadn’t known I had omelet fixings, but he was

managing. Omelets with chili and cheese, no less. And toast. He’d even taken a can of orange juice out

of the freezer. Maybe I needed to get drunk and pick guys up more often. I’d never managed to get such

a babe to sluff around my kitchen half naked when I’d tried sober dating. Not that I’d done that for a

while, either.

“Your sister,” I said. “She wouldn’t be the one in the Daisy Mae shorts, would she?”

“That’s her, yep. A million pounds of punch packed into a teeny-weeny body. Cute, isn’t she?”

I knew there was some kind of enormous cosmic irony going on here, but I put my head down on the

table, held my breath and hoped, just for a moment, that it would all go away.

Instead, the doorbell rang.

CHAPTER TWO

“Want me to get that?” Mark asked easily. Maybe he was accustomed to waking up in strange

women’s beds as a matter of course and had a certain protocol about it all. Me, I wasn’t accustomed to

that sort of thing at all, and leaped out of my chair with a yelped “No!” The chair banged into the wall

and I ran for the door as if Mark might disregard my reply and whisk himself off to open it. The smell of

omelets cooking made my stomach rumble impatiently as I unlocked the door and pulled it open to find a

big old man with bushy eyebrows looking at me quizzically.

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“Nice robe. You ain’t cookin’ an old man breakfast, are you? ’Cause I brought doughnuts. Besides, I

know how you cook.”

I clutched the collar of my robe closed, feeling like a fifties housewife. “Uh. Gary. Uh. Hi. What’re

you—ah, shit!” God, my prowess with the language was stunning today. I was an embarrassment to the

diploma laying claim to a B.A. in English lying somewhere in my apartment. “Gary, I, uh, forgot.”

He squinted down at me, gray eyes curious. Gary Muldoon was the most solid, real-looking person I’d

ever met in my life, and at seventy-three he still had the build of the linebacker he’d been in college. But

there was a bit of tiredness in the Hemingway wrinkles, and he was moving slower than he had when I

met him, thanks to a heart attack a few weeks earlier.

A heart attack that was my fault, something I couldn’t forget. Even the memory made a nervous flutter in

my stomach.

It wasn’t your usual butterflies. It was the way I perceived the power that had awoken in me seven

months earlier, when catching sight of a fleeing woman through an airplane window had triggered a series

of what I considered to be remarkably unfortunate events. Finding the woman had resulted, more or less

directly, in getting a sword stuffed through my lungs. While I was busy dying, a snide coyote dropped by

my psyche and gave me the option to survive the skewering—as a shaman. A healer, one with Great

Things in store for me.

If I’d known then what I know now…

All right, I’d have made the same decision, because nobody wants to die at twenty-six if there’s a choice

in the matter. But I didn’t want to be a shaman. The whole idea that there was a magic-filled alternative

to our world made my skin itch. I like rational, sensible explanations for things: that was part of why I

was a mechanic by trade. Or had been, anyway. Vehicle diagnostics were simple and straightforward.

Follow a certain set of steps and the vehicle runs better.Et voilà . Normal.

Having an insistent, fluttery coil of power centered right below my sternum, impatient to be used to right

the world, is not normal. And that bubble was what shivered in me every time I saw Gary, partly because

he was still healing, and partly because his illness really had been my fault.

I’d spent most of the past six months ignoring my power as best I could. It turned out that had been a

massive error in judgment. Among other things, it let a very nasty person induce a heart attack in my

closest friend so I’d be distracted while the world went to hell in a handbasket. It had worked extremely

well.

I was capable of learning from my mistakes. After six months of strenuous denial, I finally realized I was

going to have to suck it up and learn to use this power, because otherwise I was going to be used and

taken advantage of. Worse, my friends were in danger, and that, if nothing else, was enough to convince

me to pull my head out of my ass.

I put my hand over Gary’s heart. A little thread of glee burst free from that coil of power inside me,

silver-blue light splashing up my arm, under the skin, as if it followed the blood vessels. It probably did.

Through that spatter of power I could feel the steady, comforting strength of an ancient tortoise, sharing

its spirit—and, I hoped, its longevity—with Gary. It was the one thing I’d done right recently, bringing a

totem animal back to help heal my friend.

The tortoise accepted my offering of vitality, though I got a sense of amusement from it as I worked

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through my favorite analogy: cars. To me, patching up a heart that’d had an attack was like changing out

bald tires. They were worn and tired, just like an attack made the heart, but you couldn’t just switch out

one heart for another. I liked the idea of working from the inside, like I could slip a new tire around the

hub and slowly inflate it, strengthening the old muscle with newer healthy cells. Every time I saw Gary I

threw a little of that idea into him, trying to help fix the damage I’d allowed to be done. I expected his

next annual checkup to determine he had the heart of a twenty-five-year-old.

“How could you forget?” he demanded as I let my hand fall again. “We been doin’ this every day for the

past ten days, Jo. And your eggs are gonna burn.”

“What’s ’this’?” Mark came out of the kitchen, all full of tenor good cheer. “Crap, Joanne, are you

seeing somebody? I’m sorry if I screwed—oh.” He got a good look at Gary and evidently categorized

him as too old. That was new. Half the people I knew were convinced I was involved in a lusty

May-December romance.

“The eggs aren’t going to burn,” Mark added with a broad grin, and offered his hand to Gary. “I’m

Mark.”

I wrinkled up my face, afraid to look at Gary, but one eye peeped open, unable to look away, either.

He’d all but dropped his teeth, jaw long and eyes googly. He was staring at Mark, but somehow

managed to encompass me in that stare, making me squirm. I felt like a teenager caught necking with her

boyfriend. Gary put his hand out and shook Mark’s without winding his jaw back up, and Mark gave

him another broad smile. “You Joanne’s dad?”

“No!” Gary and I said at the same time. Mark’s eyebrows went up and he rocked back on his heels a

bit. “Just a friend,” I muttered. Gary transferred his googly-eyed stare to me, and it was a lot worse than

when he’d managed to pull off gaping at me without actually looking directly at me. I squirmed again. “I,

um, yesterday was the department picnic, and, um…”

Gary handed the box of doughnuts to Mark and said, in his best deep-voiced dangerous rumble, “Could

you excuse us a minute, son?”

Mark retreated to the kitchen while I gave Gary a steely-eyed look of my own, hoping to head him off at

the pass. “’Son’? Women get ’dame’ and ’broad’ and ’lady,’ and he gets ’son’?”

“It’s part of my charm,” Gary muttered, then scowled enormously at me. “You okay, Jo?” There was no

reprimand in his voice at all, just a hell of a lot of concern.

My mouth bypassed my brain entirely and said, for no reason I was willing to admit to, “Morrison was

flirting with this redhead.” To my huge irritation, that clearly made sense, because Gary’s expression

landed between understanding and sympathy, with a good dose of wryness thrown in. I said “Shit,” and

stomped into the kitchen. Gary closed the door behind himself and followed me.

“Hungry?” Mark asked genially. “Plenty where this came from.” He lifted the frying pan and then slid its

omelet onto a plate that already had two slices of buttered toast on it. I was in the presence of culinary

genius. Gary eyed me, eyed Mark, and shrugged.

“I could eat. ’Cept you sure you want to eat, Jo? You know it’ll ground you.” He put on a solicitous

tone, but underneath it I heard:don’t eat anything, we got work to do . Gary had been there, quite literally

standing over me, when my powers woke up. Frankly, he handled the entire thing a lot better than I ever

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C. E. Murphy - Walker Papers 3 - Coyote Dreams

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