One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 11, page 7

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Zhíno Zhudıro lay at peace, floating on a magical flat rock. No pain. No agony. No troubles.

A woman’s voice drifted in through his ear. Perhaps it was Fírí’s. Zhíno didn’t bother to discern the words.

He didn’t care if anyone was nearby. They didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was him, the rock, the circle of fire, and the warm hand of a god.

Perhaps, though, after he was healed, other things would matter. Fírí would be dead and gone--good riddance--but there would still be Gogzhuè and the police.

Yes, thought Zhíno, Gogzhuè and the police will definitely matter once I am healed by the wonderful Névazhíno.

With two functional hands, he’d be able to defend himself. He’d be able to strangle the last breath of life out of that mob-boss-cum-religious-leader and every one of his Voro-fucking minions. And then he’d finally be able to live in peace.

High up in the desert on the slopes of Mount Soínıpasa, Zhíno gazed across his land, shielding his eyes from the sun. Endless crimson poppies waved to and fro in the wind. This was his home. This was where he was at peace. Just the land, the air, and the animals who inhabit them both. He was one of those animals; he was all of those animals.

Taking two quick steps downhill, Zhíno launched himself into the cerulean sky and soared upward on a warm breeze.

He was finally free.

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