Page 1 of Coyote

Somebody had been eating my food for three weeks, and tonight he was going to do it in front of me.

I'd kept count. A dozen tortillas on Tuesday. Half a wheel of cheese the Tuesday before that. Not one spoonful of my beans, which I took personally.

I stood in the kitchen, gripping one of my good cast-iron pans by the handle, listening to the thief rummage around in the pantry. Pearl stood at my side, growling low, but whatever was on the other side of that door either didn't hear her or didn't care.

I crossed the floor with the pan up and put my free hand flat on the pantry door and caught myself holding my breath. Pearl's growl climbed.

I pulled the door open.

A boy crouched on the second shelf with a sack of tortillas crushed against his chest and one filthy bare foot braced on the flour bin. He came around toward me all at once with a knife already in his hand.

His knees were sharp under his jeans, his hair matted flat on one side, dirt worked into his neck. His eyes found mine and held them, and my stomach dropped. I'd seen eyes like that across this same table, the first year Rafe was home, when he ate with his back to the wall and never put down the fork. He'd found every exit in my kitchen before he found my face.

Pearl pressed hard into my leg, growling so deep I felt it through the floor.

"Quiet," I told her.

The boy brought the knife against my jaw and let out a low growl of his own.

"You stab me in my kitchen," I said, "and I'm going to be real unhappy about it."

Something moved under his shirt. I shifted my grip on the pan before I'd thought about it, ready to swing, and then a narrow reddish-brown head slid out over his collar and tasted the air between us.

I lowered the pan. "That's a snake."

His arm crushed the tortillas closer. "She's mine."

"I wasn't going to take her."

"You were going to hit me."

"I was going to hit whatever's been cleaning out my pantry. I didn't know it was a kid."

His stomach growled, long and loud in the quiet kitchen. Pearl tipped her head at the sound.

"You hungry?"

"I can take care of myself," he snarled. The knife stayed against my jaw.

"I didn't say you couldn't. I asked if you wanted a burrito."

His eyes moved from the pan to my face and back again. "I don't take charity."

"Good. I'm not offering any."

I set the pan on the stove, turned my back on him, and reached for the eggs. Three clear chances at my throat and he hadn't taken one.

Rafe was asleep upstairs. If I had it wrong, he'd come down in the morning and find me on my own floor, and he'd never forgive either one of us.

Behind me, the shelf creaked. His bare feet touched the floor one at a time.

I lit the burner. The gas caught blue, and I cracked eggs into the pan. Butter and chile warmed the kitchen while I pulled down the beans and cheese.

"You drink coffee?" I asked.

He came half a step closer and pulled air in through his nose. "Yes?"

I put beans into the grinder and stopped with my thumb over the switch. "This part's loud. Cover your ears."