Desert Whispers

My grandmother warned: never whistle at night in the desert. I thought it

superstition, until last summer. Camping alone, a whistle began. My melody,

outside my tent. Then my own voice called my name. Grandmother warned of

skinwalkers: witches who mimic voices. They cannot enter unless invited.

My voice outside pleaded: 'I'm hurt, I need help!' I knew the

rule. I stayed silent. At dawn, tracks around my tent shifted from

coyote prints to almost human. My whistle, left in my locked car,

I found hanging from a tree branch nearby. What would you do if something