The modern world wasn't something that agreed with Old Man Coyote. He
helped humanity build it by giving them fire, but that had been long
ago. Things were good for a long time after that, but the arrival of the
Europeans changed everything. He did what he could for the people who
originally called this land home, but his efforts hadn't paid off. At
least his children were doing well for themselves in this new world,
living in the shadows of the cities.



It wasn't the arrival of the Europeans that he hated the most about how
the world changed either, it was the arrival of automobiles. The woman
that just ran him over with her SUV while he checked out a particularly
juicy bit of roadkill being the most recent reminder of why he hated
cars. She hadn't even bothered to stop, not that it would have helped,
but didn't she at least want to make sure she had gotten a clean kill?
He hoped that she spilled whatever she was drinking at the time of
impact into her lap. She looked shocked to see him when he glanced up at
the sound of squealing breaks as her SUV barreled into him.



Lying dead on the side of the road also didn't suit Coyote. He'd been
dead before, and the last time, when he'd been caught in a steel trap
after eating poisoned food, an old Navajo man took his lifeless carcass
home and skinned him for his fur. The man used the pelt to keep his bed
warm, but sensing there was power he couldn't possess, the Navajo man
buried Coyote's bones a distance from his home. A few months later,
Coyote had resurrected himself form the desert dust.



Being dead didn't bother Coyote, just the pointlessness of his
misfortune this time. He'd done it so many times he just considered it
an extended nap. It gave him time to recharge his magic. Now lying
bleeding in the blazing sun, barely able to breathe, that did bother
him. He would have to wait for something to come and finish him off, and
that he was not doing, at least not today.



He pushed himself forward with just one working leg, inch by inch, his
broken body aching in protest. He managed to drag his wounded form off
the road into the dust and gravel at the side. Afterward Coyote panted
in the shade of a scrub bush, exhausted. He could feel his physical form
slipping away.



"No," wheezed the canine. The word came out as a bark. "Not today."



He propped himself up with his unbroken leg, and threw back his head
into a yipping howl, calling down primordial magic. The sound was weak
and faint. When he was young, and before the Europeans had come, this
had been easy. He could will himself to shift forms and heal. Now it was
much harder, but as he kept up the howl, it became easier, his voice
stronger.



When finished, he let himself flop to the ground where he panted for a
minute, momentarily tired. Finally he got up, shaking out his dusty
coat.



A trail of blood and guts led from the road to where he stood, but
turning to look back at his tail, he seemed to be in good shape. All
four of his paws were whole again. Coyote was back in action.



Unfortunately the roadkill he'd been investigating also was struck by
the SUV, and it disintegrated. It was inedible and a waste of good
jackrabbit. Now what was he to do for his lunch?