We call the killers beautiful. It happens all the time. There is no need to be afraid. The things of the world pour through Tonya. She feels immobilized and drugged. She spits so the seeds of death will grow as she takes another swig of coca cola. Tonya was working hard at establishing her innocence. I had thrown my hat in the haha. She considered me her oppressor. I would shake her books and count the money that would fall on the floor. She had never seen mountains before. She begged me to stop the car so she could get out and take a good look at them. She was upset when I told her there was no film in the camera, this was before digital cameras. We stopped at a trout fishing spot and had lunch. I read to her a couple of poems from Richard Brautigan as she fidgeted on the blanket. She wanted me to write down all the names of my hookers. She wanted to sew their names into a quilt just like her grandmother did with her grandchildren. Tonya found it hard to sleep. In the morning she would be attacking the shore of the small little beach head. She knew that some of them would be dead, that not every girl would make it back alive. Bonnie was lying flat on her bunk with her eyes closed. She kept telling herself that she would be one of the unlucky ones. She prayed to every god she could think of and to some that she was sure she had made up. Bonnie figured that any god fake or real was just as good as any in a tight situation like this. Tonya was thinking about hard things like if they would be shipping her body home. She wondered if Hugo would remember what her pussy felt like. Tonya told lies to all the other girls about how pretty they were or how one had the grace of a movie star or the voice of a goddess. Bonnie put her trust in Tonya’s lies. The lies, for Bonnie always revealed the pattern. It was the pattern that she put her trust in. The lies were only the vehicle for revealing the pattern. Bonnie says that the pattern is everywhere.