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laughter bubbling up toward the sky. Jackal
imagined the vapor of their breath adding a layer to the moon-bright
cirrus trails overhead, their merriment carried in the belly of a cloud
until it rained down in some far-off spot. Today of all days, I can't
believe I'm laughing, she thought. Bless Snow.
    “Where are those sandwiches?” she
demanded. “I'm starving. Hey, don't drink all the wine.”
    “So what was wrong with Elephant?”
    “You mean apart from the fact that my
mother wanted it so bad?”
    Snow crooked her head. “Was that it?”
    Jackal thought about it around another
mouthful. “I suppose it was a little. It wasn't so much that I would
have said no to anything she came up with.… It was more that all her
choices seemed so wrong for me. She kept saying ‘Oh, they're only my
ideas, little one, you make your own choice.’ But it was so clear even
then that she wanted me to choose to be an elephant or an eagle or an
oak. And I just wanted a name, you know? I didn't want to wear a word
like some kind of world responsibility around my neck for the rest of
my life. And it was winter, and I was tired of being cold, and I didn't
know what I was, only what I wasn't. I sure wasn't anything on her
list. So I finally sorted out all the books that described warm-weather
climates and fauna, and opened them at random. One of them said that
jackals were related to wolves and ran in packs and were scavengers,
and it said—I'll never forget this—it said ‘The jackal's cry is even
more terrifying than that of the hyena.’ And I thought, that's what I
want. I want to run with my web and be wild, survive anywhere, and I
want everyone to get out of the way when I yell.”
    “Well,” Snow said finally.
    “I was only twelve.”
    “A rebel.”
    “I was just mad at everything.” She was
getting a crick in her neck; she stretched hard and felt cool air seep
into the spaces where her clothes pulled back from her wrists and
ankles.
    “What do you think a rebel is?” Snow said
matter-of-factly. And then, dismissively, surprising Jackal, “Your
mother has no imagination. But there's your answer, anyway. You picked
a name because it meant something you wanted to be, not something you
were. It suits you because you grew into it. Maybe you'd be different
if you were Elephant.” She unwrapped a sandwich, examined it a moment;
then folded back a corner of the bread and began to pick out and nibble
bits of corned beef. “Everyone would expect you to be wise and
thoughtful. Deliberate. Have thick legs.” Snow was piked, Jackal
realized, and then saw the second bottle standing in the dead-soldier
position in a carefully built dome of sand next to Snow's right knee.
“So,” she continued, “are you like that jackal in the book?”
    “I don't know. I guess I won't know for a
while.… Have you ever seen someone who looked like they grew into
exactly the right face for them? That's what I want. I don't think I
have it yet.”
    “So what does the right face of a Hope
look like? Jackal, what's the—oh, here, let me help. Poor baby. I'm
right here. Take this, wipe your mouth. Damn all cheap wine. Let's get
you home.”
    She could feel Snow's drunken worry as she
drove, trying to watch Jackal and keep on the road at the same time.
Jackal felt dizzy, and when she closed her eyes she saw Tiger, Chao,
her mother.…
    “Stop the car,” she said thickly, and Snow
made a little sound and wobbled the car to the side of the road. Jackal
opened her door and leaned her head out. When she was done, she wiped
her mouth on the hem of her tunic even though the cloth was gritty with
sand. The cool air on her face did not make her any less drunk, but it
steadied her. She put her mother and Tiger and the rest of it back into
its particular box inside her, clamped the lid tight. She was so tired.
    “Take me home,” she said. “I'm sorry I hit
Tiger and I don't want to feel bad, I want to go home and have mad sex
and then just hold onto