“What, you’ve never wondered if you dreamt something or actually experienced it? Happens to me. And you said it yourself: you were s**t-canned off that—what was it?”
“Jeppson’s Malört,” I said—still tasting it in my mouth, smelling it on my sweat. Still feeling as though it had been poured over my brain like bile. “Look, it wasn’t a dream, okay?”
I stopped walking and stared at her—to emphasize my point—as seabirds swirled (there were no pterodactyls today) and the waves crashed. “Look, I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m telling you: Someone is on the air.” I gripped her shoulders—harder than I’d intended. “Radio Free Montana—that’s what they call themselves. Broadcasting out of a place called Barley Hot Springs. Jesus, Amelia. Don’t you see what that means?”
She placed her hands on h
