The Skinwalker's cave had become overrun with the bones of its victims. Too many people had either caught a glimpse of it, or escaped it, and because of that, the junction of I-160 and HWY-41, in the southwest corner of Colorado, was no longer a feasible hunting ground. Armed officers began searching for the creature responsible for the disappearances, as did myth hunters. For weeks the Skinwalker sat in the mouth of its den, and now, it scanned a vast and exhausted desert.

The Skinwalker's skin was milky in color and clung tight to wiry muscles. It draped the hide of a coyote across his back, and he began to transform. A face that resembled half man, half coyote shifted from man to beast. His mouth elongated into a muzzle, and his eyes sank into his skull. Though his face resembled a coyote's, he still possessed human eyes. They captured subtle glints of the silver moon. From behind sheets of greasy and thin black hair, the Skinwalker's eyes shifted. As its hair receded, a gentle wind pushed against it, and then fur bloomed from the pores of its skin. The Skinwalker inched out of its cave as the bones in its legs popped, and rearranged themselves, and now, except for its eyes, it had completed its transformation into a coyote.

It sat in the maw of its den and howled at the moon. The cloudless sky hung over a vast gray desert, sparse with vegetation, and split by I-160. Shallow plumes of dust spiraled in protest of the breeze, and either dissipated in victory or flew westward in defeat as a wandering cloud of dirt. There were few animals skulking about, and even fewer people driving down the interstate.

Accepting that it must move on to survive, the Skinwalker trotted out of its den and stepped upon the harsh ground of the desert. The whistling breeze pushed against its fur as it sniffed the air and looked at I-160. It followed the interstate southwest, until it found a small home occupied by a family of three, northwest of T'ii Nazbas Community School, about eight miles away.

Dohasan Yazzie, a man in his late thirties and of Navajo descent, had spent the day toiling on a highway about thirty miles away from home. The labor was grueling. Intense. The heat of the desert mingled with hot pavement made the work so much worse and left his uniform soaked with sweat. He hung his blue and white striped shirt over their porch railing before entering his home, as he didn't want the smell of sweat or his work to stink up the couch. An orange and yellow vest hung beside the shirt.

The Yazzie home was a small four-bedroom bungalow ranch style house built in the middle of nowhere, accessible only by a single dirt path carved by those who drive on it. Built in the 60s, this house has had few occupants through the years.

Dohasan and Sarah Yazzie purchased the home in June of 2023, and Dohasan didn't mind that the purchase wiped out their savings, as this was their first home. And they were proud of it. This home, located off of I-160 northwest from Teec Nos Pos, served as a middle point between where they wanted to go (closer to his mother Atsa, who lived in Willow Springs, a two- and half-hour drive), and where they were coming from, Thoreau New Mexico. This home, out in the middle of nowhere, is nothing more than a temporary spot on their life journey.

Sarah liked that the home was small, and the only way to get to it was to drive on a dirt road for about ten minutes. From the interstate, the home was hardly visible, and because it was so far away, the sound of traffic didn't reach them. The home was white with a brown tinge because of the desert. There was plenty of yard space, and a sprawling mountain ridge that stood out against the dramatic backdrop of the Arizona sky. She worked from home as a customer service representative. So long as she had a quiet room to work in, a door that could lock, and an internet connection, she could work in the comfort of the spare bedroom they set aside for this purpose.

The sun set in the distance as Dohasan stood in the kitchen. Before him simmered a stew. He stirred it every so often. Occasionally a carrot or sliver of onion would bubble to the surface. His mother was visiting, and though he didn't like her stew, he knew it was best to entertain her. A chunk of meat floated to the surface. Stirring the pot with a wooden spoon, Dohasan pushed down the meat chunk. He covered the pot with a lid and turned away from it. His daughter, Niabi, bounced on Atsa's knee, and relished the moment she shared with her granddaughter.

Niabi was a young girl, seven years old to be exact, who had been enrolled into an online school. Dohasan and Sarah agreed that to compensate for Niabi's lack of social interaction, they would take her to the park often, until they figured out a way to get her into school. Fortunately for them, Atsa lived down the block from a park, but unfortunately for them, Atsa lived more than two hours away.

Though her hips, feet, and joints were bad, Atsa, she didn't slow down. She didn't know how to and knew that to feel young at her old age, she had to keep moving. Gardening, swimming, and power walking kept her somewhat thin, and as flexible as a seventy-four-year-old woman can be. She smiled as she held her granddaughter and bounced her off her knee.

She said, "Dohasan, you've bik'ehgoed this place, right?"

Dohasan pressed his eyes shut as he turned away from his mother. He sighed as he pushed his fingers through his thick jet-black hair. Sarah sat up and turned her attention away from the television.

Sarah said, "what does that mean?"

Glaring at Dohasan, Atsa curled her lips and bit them. Though he didn't abandon his Navajo roots, he certainly didn't try to learn about them either.

Atsa hissed, "you haven't told her? It means to carry out a ceremony to protect this place from Skinwalkers," she pointed at the mountain range clearly visible from the living room window, "you got a sweetheart right here you need to watch out for."

Dohasan turned around, opened the soup pot, and stirred it. Navajo culture, his heritage, it all felt like baggage he was forced to carry around. It did not take long for people to figure out that he was a Native American Indian, and when they did, the apologies would come. People apologizing for something they didn't do to someone who didn't suffer.

Sorry for this. Sorry for that, yet he felt no one truly felt the words they spoke. No, they said what they said because that's what people are supposed to do. Apologize. 

https://youtu.be/OnFW8HyTcfQ