We took the peyotl just past sundown, somewhere between superstition and stupidity, and by the stroke of midnight, the ember's eyes glittered like wet stars. He was in there — the grandfather, all smoke and jawbone, teeth like river rocks with a voice that sounded like old wind through chapel ruins. He didn’t speak English or hablas Español, didn’t need to — just looked at me with those Tutankhamun Ghandi sparkly bastard eyes, and I knew: I was either losing my mind or meeting God with ash on my tongue. The flames danced like they knew a joke I didn’t. I laughed anyway. Hard. Then cried at the clouds. Then laughed again. You give all your last drops of sustenance to save some steeds and life wasn't ever the same grain ever again.