We stop and ask for directions to the falls. Up the road, they say. We go. Up, up the road. Little birds flutter in the dried fields searching for desiccated meals. The crows have followed me here as well. I want to be an assassin, I say. And have us live out here where I cannot be found. You tell me they always find where the assassins live. They do, in the movies. This is real life. I would not want to be the best anyway. I don’t want to be the president of assassins. Or king, you say, but this is America, and you are sweaty. I tell you you’re sweating. Hot flashes, don’t look at me. You look beautiful. I stop glancing at you in the rearview and look out across the fields again. I don’t even see a mountain. There can be no falls. Local tourist trap fuckers, and scratch the back of my hand. I think of moving my seat back to make room for a good blow job, or pulling over for more. Hot flashes is a preemptive warning like a frog’s blue spots. Later is best. The dashboard is dusty and free of litter. This is an almost new car. I turn the air up and you smile. The air is more dry than I expected. You say, I know, it’s terrible. The sky is too clear for a day like this. It will swallow us whole. We do get to the falls, the meek river flowing into a pit in the earth. This is not the time of year to see them. When we return, and I am an assassin, we will be sure to visit again.