The Desert Whistler

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

I thought it was superstition. Camping alone, I heard a perfect imitation of

my voice calling for help from the dark. Something ran circles around the tent.

Backwards breathing and my own distorted, stretched out laughter. At dawn, the tracks changed.

Bare human feet turning into long toes and sharp claws. Missed calls from

my own number. Backwards breathing. I never whistle at night anymore.