The real trouble comes from not knowing what we really want in the first place
He looks at me with those mismatched eyes of his, pretending he’s as guileless as a newborn babe, but while my father might have made some mistakes in his life, raising me to be stupid wasn’t one of them.
“If you’d wanted to,” I say, “we could have found Kokopelli weeks ago.”
The medicine flute is still playing, soft as a distant breeze. It’s always playing when I’m here – never close by, but never so far away that I can’t hear it anymore.
“You could take me to him right now… if you wanted to.”
“The thing is,” Coyote says, “nothing’s as easy as we’d like it to be.”
“Don’t I know it,” I mutter, but he’s not even listening to me.
“And the real trouble comes from not knowing what we really want in the first place.”
“I want what I want – to find Kokopelli, or whatever it is playing that flute.”