Free Postcards from a Dead Girl by Kirk Farber

English is no good. I am from Norvay. Do you know Norvegian?” She laughs as if she can guess the answer. Her friends blow me more kisses between their index and middle fingers. The Norwegian girl holds up her cigarette in front of her face. “I need a letter,” she says, and loses her balance a little but catches herself. “Fire,” she says.
    â€œOh,” I say loud and slow, “a lighter!”
    She points at me. Her friends cheer.
    â€œSorry, I don’t smoke.” I give her my best eighth-grade Spanish. “ No fumar. Lo siento .” I hold my palms up, and shrug.
    She frowns in mock despair, then leans in toward me. “You are cute guy,” she says, and kisses my cheek. She reaches out to touch my chin, gives it a gentle push, and says, “Eso es desafortunado porque pienso te amo.”
    â€œI don’t speak Norwegian,” I say, which is unfortunate.
    She winks, spins around toward her friends, and clicks away.

chapter 25
    Rotating the channels on my hotel television allows me to watch the pictures without watching them. I can stare bleary-eyed through the box of light while still gleaning some content. It’s a nice break from the booming noise of the club, but my unfocused eyes are catching some weird stuff.
    A commercial for Wild Chase Videos plays helicopter footage of cars smashing on the highway and flying off bridges. A World News channel displays an animation of space junk cluttering the stratosphere, crashing into satellites, hurling burned chunks of metal back toward the earth. The channels seem to have increased in number. A dog show has a woman sprinting alongside her purebred, the animal looking less than thrilled to be there. I swear the dog is somehow pleading for help, and when I snap my eyes back into focus, another commercial takes over the screen, advertising a deep-tanning lotion that makes you extra sexy.
    I push the off button. The picture instantly reduces to a small bright square and hovers there for a moment, like it doesn’t want to leave. I realize I’ve been at the edge of my seat for the past hour, my body rigid with engagement, regardless of my mentaldetachment. I roll my shoulders to loosen up. The little box of light dims.
    I stand up to stretch, walk around the room a few times. I hear dogs barking at one another outside, or maybe they’re barking at the moon.
    I’ve noticed there are a large number of dogs running free in Spain, roaming the neighborhoods, weaving in and out of traffic. My late-night mind starts in with late-night thoughts: I wonder who picks up the animal carcasses left on the streets, if it’s a job the police do in the earliest hours of the morning to avoid onlookers. I wonder then who might pick up human carcasses, and how those people go home at night and manage to forget what they’ve seen when they tuck their children into bed, or make love to their wives before sleeping soundly. And do they sleep soundly? Or do they stay awake all night with the television on mute, half-watching blurry images of cars and satellites and dog shows, ruminating about morbid curiosities?
    â€œAll right, tiger,” I say out loud, cutting off the stream of ominous thoughts, “time for night-night. Somebody’s wiped out from too much excitement.”
    I go to the bathroom and run the shower, get back in bed, and listen to the white noise. My tired body falls unconscious almost immediately. I dream of car washes, giant humming tombs, pink foam sluicing down my windshield, gentle electric eyes blinking hello, and me, surfing on a strong, steady wave in the ocean of Deep Blue Bliss. Zoe memorizes my back with her fingertips and asks me what I would do if she were dead. I roll over to tell her what I always tell her, but her skin has turned to slate, she’s cold to the touch. Her gray eyes stare lifelessly back at me. “Ning maa,” she coos, and smiles.

chapter 26
    Screaming in the