The Desert Mimic

Listen. My grandmother warned me never to whistle at night in the desert.

I thought it was superstition until I worked night security in Arizona. Three weeks in,

I heard a mimicry of my own whistle outside. Then I heard my voice.

Calling my name from the perimeter fence. My blood went cold.

Whatever was out there had been learning me. Scratching at the doors.

My own voice asking to be let in. The door handles had handprints.

The fingers were too long. Wrong angles. I quit. Sometimes I still

hear whistling. It sounds like me.