THE desert is an ocean filled with saguaros that act as reefs for scorpions and shade for the jackrabbits. Like the ocean, it's depths had vastly gone unexplored, untapped. And within it are centuries of secrets, legends, and a chest of Spanish gold that his granddad had been looking for since his wife died. In his granddad's truck, though, the near hour drive to the closest Goodwill is more like a months' long voyage, with only an ‘89 dodge ram as a ship lost in a sea of sand. It's only eight and raining, so he keeps the windows closed and the air off to save his gas money.

The way he drove intermediated between ‘slow' and ‘deliberate' to ‘reckless & scary'.

Solomon always hated it when grandpa drove. There was always a restless pang of danger whenever he rode with him. Maybe it was the cataract in his left eye, or how heated he'd get whenever he was cut off -- oh, he'd spit every curse word in both Diné and English at that point -- either way, he always rode with his grandpa with the idea that both of the old man's hands positioned at ‘10' and ‘2' controlled their fate.

He looks up to settle his sights on the winding road ahead, but then his eyes catch a glimpse of a postcard. The shadow of a buffalo underneath a purple sky and a red moon. It's slightly dog eared and the back of the card is a light, coffee shade of brown, but the image is clear and sharp. "Your grandma's," his grandfather had answered his question before he even asked, "One of your great Aunt's sent it to her while she was at a retreat in Nevada. It was ten years ago, I think. Odd was already at my shoulders back then, and you and Homer, were... what? Five? And a few months, I believe."

Solomon sat in silence as the rain stops and the sun yawns awake from its sleep as his grandfather continued to speak, "You know about the buffalo? Yeah, the gov'ment almost killed the buffalo clear off the planet because they didn't want the Indians to eat."

Solomon nodded, the words soaking into his mind. What he learned from sixth grade history would confirm his granddad's comment but, "...but" This would be the first thing he'd say after thirty minutes of quiet solemnity, "That happened to the Plains Indians... like the Sioux. We're not Plains Indians, granddad."

"Nah, we're not." his grandfather nodded, "We're Diné Indians! We live in hogans and sell turquoise jewelry from church functions and powwows to white kids wearin' face paint and halloween costumes. And wanna kiss white girls, like Emily Davis in Spanish class."

"We eat bannock and egg mcmuffins and raise sheep." Solomon smirked, and his grandfather yanked one of his braids, "Tch." his grandfather always sucked the air through his teeth, "Don't mock our traditions, boy. I only I can do that."

Solomon grew quiet again. "Sorry."

After that, he didn't speak for the remainder of their trip.

"Yeah, Homer was just a few months. Back when you all lived in Tucson."

<...>
Back then, his mother smiled more. She had no grey hair and her skin was the color of the burnt sienna crayons he used to draw her with during recess. Her lips and cheeks were always red and every once in a while, he'd sneak a hug with her during snack time, and watch her fade back to another classroom where she worked as a teacher's aide, never the teacher.

"Wait for me after class, Solomon. I have to get your brother from the third and fourth grade building, first." and then she'd waddle, being six months pregnant with sore ankles, down the hall and into the October air.

When they lived in Tucson, their hair was clipped short, just underneath the ears and everyone thought they were related to the Garcias, the only Mexican family that sent their kids to this majority white school, until his mother came in to set things straight during a PTO meeting. "We're Navajo. Native Americans." She would pack his snacks with grapes and oranges and small pretzels and crackers and anything else she could buy on a deal with food stamps. His hands and shirt would smell like valencias for the reminder of that day.

"What smells so good?"

"Me, mommy!"

<...>

At the Goodwill, they bought him: six shirts, two pairs of sneakers, one pair of almost new dress shoes, a tie, some slacks, two jeans, and a scarf; mix-match knitting patterns in bright shades of blue and red. The nonexistence of a made in China tag indicated that it was handmade.

Besides that, two of those shirts, the jeans, and one pair of sneakers, everything else was in the warmth bearing shade of black. "I don't know why ya' need yer clothes to be like that, Solomon." his grandfather says pointedly towards the bag in his lap, "Too hot for that."

He shrugs, "I like it." and does know that it's too hot for Arizona weather, but he wears his black clothes, anyway. "You tryin' ta be like Johnny Cash?"

"Nah. I just like the color." Life begins to feel normal. He almost forgets about Virginia Nez. And then, they see it. News reporters. Cameras. All bombarding his mother as she struggles to get inside. His grandad drives up, angry, and nearly makes a sharp turn into the crowd. He steps out first, "What the hell is this!? Sam! What is all this?"

Her name is actually Samantha, but no one has called her that since she'd been in elementary school. "They want an interview with Solomon!" she whispers, already harried by the unwelcome presence of a dozen cameras and people who continue to press the issue of her son drinking people's blood and worshipping Satan. "NO COMMENT!" She cries as she runs to the car with a blanket and covers Solomon, braids and all and crams him into the medium sized house that's been in their family for more than half a century.

Once inside, they can still hear the rumble of at least twenty or thirty people shuffling about and screaming, yes, screaming, "HER BREASTS! WERE THEY OR WERE THEY NOT CUT OFF?"

<...>

They stayed for at least another hour until the police finally showed up and wrangled them all out with threats of ‘federal crime' and a possible lawsuit if they didn't present any license or a valid reason for stomping on private property.

"Tch." his grandfather always made sure he was heard, "This ain't private, we've been renting from the BIA for a century!"
<...>

This just in, a young Navajo indian girl's murder sections a small desert community. Here we have Maria Estes with the story. "Tensions have been high today in an Arizona town as rumors fly about a fellow student of Virginia Nez, who would have been an upcoming sophomore. Locals say that the teen in question is also a young, Navajo native and has been known to be rather odd."

Sources claim that the locals have made theories that range from plausible, to wildly inappropria-

<...>

"I don't care how you found out, it's none of your fucking business! STOP CALLING!" SLAM. Samantha Dinétsfósí is pissed off. Her voice grew sore and hoarse during that call. Solomon can see her in his peripheral, pacing about while puffing away on a menthol cigarette. "I can't believe *puff* the type of town *puff* we live in. *puff*"

The house smells like choking, black tar smoke and cinnamon. It's seeped into everything; the couch, the walls, Solomon's hair, grandpa's chair, and his mom's heart and lungs.

Puff.

Earlier, the house smelled like lard and flour; frybread tacos with shredded chicken and beans was their dinner. They washed it down with a side of poverty.

Grandpa went to bed first. Complained about his bad knee and all of the stress he's been through. He doesn't stop to read the paper or watch the news.

"I'm sorry, Solomon." his mother chokes out.
"For what?" Concern knits his face. She's been crying and smoking for almost an hour.
"Everything."

<...>

For three days and two nights it only rains, but on Sunday night, the sky is clear.
"Just focus on your studies, and ignore them." Samantha has tried to make things easy on her son, but he wonders if a part of herself quietly wished dad and Homer would've survived instead of him and Odd, who was thousands of miles away. The scars on his neck and back match the scars on her hands and uterus. "Maybe..." he says, fighting sleep, "..if I didn't have scars on my brain, she'd love me again."

<...>

Every night, he has the same dream. The genderless person dancing in a field of fallen stars as the smell of doom and burnt earth travels into his nose. And every time, he's spotted and he hides. Every night, the being gets a little closer. From the field. To his window. To his bed. It's looming over him. Floating. He can feel it's heat as it touches its face to his. Every night, he asks, "Who are you?" and then he wakes up.

He can smell coffee, and even though it's still dark outside, he knows its morning.
A tap at his door, "Solomon, get up and get dressed. And don't forget your bookbag."

His calendar is marked.

AUGUST 6, 2007.

WELCOME TO HELL.