Shimmering in the haze, impossibly big, the coyote with dragon wings must be a heat mirage, walking along the highway, past the traffic jam your bright little car is stuck in. But she gets closer and clearer and you feel each step more and more, huge grey digitigrade paws, as wide as all four lanes of cars trapped in her path. She’s not even looking down. You honk frantically. The next step, a hundred yards away, is a minor earthquake. Your car inches forward. The sky ahead is all her, legs and hips and wings. You honk more. The next step is a major earthquake, cars fifty yards away disappearing, then falling and tumbling like leaves as the paw lifts. Now the sky is just that paw, toes bigger than your car, claws bigger than your body. You lean on your horn as if it were a protection spell. The next quake bounces your car into the air, cracking your windshield. But the paw is behind you. You let out a breath you don’t remember holding. You’re safe.

Something slams into your door and the passenger door simultaneously, windows shattering, metal frame crumpling. She’s picked your car up between thumb and forefinger. The view shifts between the ruins of the highway, her hand, her body, then stops with you facing her, facing down. She’s tilted her head back, holding you up higher than her impossible height. She has dragon horns, too, and huge swirly golden eyes. But mostly you’re focused on those teeth as she addresses you.

“Honking is rude.” She lets go. Your car tumbles between her jaws, sliding down the wet road of her tongue.

You don’t honk again. You just scream.