This was never who Coyote had wanted to be: a daddy. His long-term plan had been to find steady work as a rock star—the front man to wailing guitar anthems in stadium concerts, smoking weed with Jackass and falling asleep every night with his face wedged between the skinny flanks of Hyena—but now Coyote had obligations. Instead of sexy groupies, Coyote had a wife who didn’t believe in abortion. He’d bought a two-bedroom house in the Rainier Valley where their new baby never seemed to stop crying. Coyote didn’t need a paternity test to know the baby had inherited his set of pipes. His baby wasn’t a year old, and Coyote worried that it was already addicted to driving in cars. That didn’t bode well for the precious environment. The only way he could lull the baby to sleep was by strapping it into the backseat of his beater Dodge Dart and driving around Seattle at roughly the speed of a shopping cart pushed along a supermarket aisle. No faster than five miles per hour, tops. Like clockwork, the baby woke at midnight.
