Toby pulls out of the parking lot of the car rental at the Memphis International Airport, and heads home for the first time in years. Nothing but his grandfather’s funeral could have dragged him back here; he wonders if he should have come even for this.

The name of this story is not “X” as in the 24th letter of the English alphabet; it is not the symbol which is pronounced “eks.”

Finley was walking past the Goodwill store when he got snagged by the new mannequin in their window. He slowed but didn’t stop; he just looked twice to make sure. It was the girl, all right: the long slope of the jaw, the ebony eyes. What was her name again?

Marvin could not stop grinning. Then again, he felt he had every right to grin. None of his brothers or sisters, not one of his cousins, nobody in his family had ever had twins.

Some people talk in their sleep. Brock sings.

Sometimes he sings songs of healing that Grandfather taught him. This morning, though, he wakes up singing a war song he learned from his uncles while riding roundup in the mountains.

The rain was still at least ninety miles away, down below the Mexican border, but Ernie knew the storm was coming.

Here in Tucson, the weather seldom gets truly cold, as cold as in, oh, say, Boston.

Monty dried his hands. “You know, Pete, in all the years we’ve known each other, the only money I’ve ever gotten out of you has been for cleaning. I’m getting tired of such perfect teeth.”

It’s late when I hear Jackson come in. He pauses on his way through the kitchen to pour himself a glass of milk and make a sandwich. After a few minutes, he comes down the hallway, heading for the living room. As he passes the open door of the study, I can tell by the hesitation in his stride the exact moment he sees me in front of my computer.

Dad-blasted boy! “Travis!” I yell. “What the hell is in this bowl? It tastes like hog slop!”

It was late before Dylan came dragging home. His tie hung loose, and his wheat-brown hair was running amok.

Sam puts his hand on the knob of the door leading into the small mobile home. His palm is sweaty, but he grips the knob tightly and turns it. He walks into the tiny living room, intent on kidnaping.

To the Hopi, Coyote is nothing but grade-A, number one, flat-out stupid. Since Coyote stories are cautionary tales, I suppose there’s no reason not to go to the extreme. If you want to teach kids what it means to be human, how not to be a fool is as good a lesson as how to be a hero.

The sun has not yet come up, and the air feels cool enough that Rocky reconsiders wearing shorts. His terrycloth pullover keeps his arms warm, but chill bumps race up and down his legs. He knows, though, that when the sun does rise, long pants will be a liability.

The wind blew around the eaves of the bedroom I was sharing with my cousin. Through the window, light of an autumn moon fell across the posters on the walls. Kevin stirred in his bed.