to love

River Wolf was a restless teenager in suburban Las Vegas who loved gangster movies and acting cool. Nobody could imagine he wanted to murder his best friend and bury him in the desert.

River Wolf had been a bit of a goth in junior high school and had a lot of black clothes, but now he wore black every day, dressing in an undertaker's uniform of clean, neat black shirts and slacks. He was quiet but arrogant, too good for this school, bragging that his shoes cost $250, pouring hot coffee into a glass of ice water to make an iced coffee at Denny's. He said he wanted to change his name to "Ghost Rider," or at least get a fake ID that said as much.

River Wolf was the last to appear. He looked thin and his mouth had a grim set to it. He had an uncut, light-growth beard that made him look something like a survivalist, and his voice has taken on a heavy drawl so menacing it almost sounded Southern. He drummed his fingers on the table. "It's nothing like you see in the movies in here," he said. "It sucks. It's boring. There's a lot of homeless people. They strip-search you. They don't let you smoke. I always saw that shot in movies: guard walking by, phone off the hook, hand coming out of the bars with a cigarette. Nope."