I’ll meet you at the railroad tracks. By the big tree, next to the wind, below the sun. Just near the dead raccoon. I hope it’s still there. In case it’s not, check for signs. Bones, little ones: raccoons have tiny fingers and few toes. Specks of blood or entrails. Or ants who have followed a promising trail only to find nothing left. Bits of stripey fur. Or stripey bits of fur? I’m not sure how raccoons work.