The phone hummed in the young man’s ear and soon a woman’s voice answered. He smiled and rubbed his yellow teeth. It was good to hear his woman’s voice again, although it did sound slurred.

“Hey, Feather,” he said.

“Who’s thith?” said the woman.

“Whaddaya mean ‘who’? It’s Zach.”

There was a pause, a loud hiccup. “Who?”

The young man rolled his eyes. “Rash.” She was drunk.

Giddy laughter sounded on the other end. “Thap’s your real name?”

Until now, nobody knew Rash’s real name except the janitor who cheated him at poker twice a year. People had called him that from the start of his first rash, and rumor had it that he still had one from time to time. No matter where he traveled on the reservation, or anywhere else in the White Mountains, he was Rash.

“Yeah,” said Rash. “I just got outta jail. Can you pick me up?”