He had finally stopped sweating. For once Nixon didn’t look like he was trying to sell us a ’65 Ford Galaxy with an off-color hood. His body jerked and flipped as wolves, in winter, tore long, dry strips of flesh from Nixon’s carcass, chewing on sinew under the moonless sky. Nixon’s internal organs were already gone and his bones hung like sugar skeletons inside his skin. When the grizzly meal was finished the wolves trotted off, their almost silent footsteps fading into the trees.