So I ride east at midnight. I will find the shaman with nine knots in her belt. I will ask her to cut the devil’s thread from my ribs. But deep in my bones, I know: On the steppe, once you have seen him, you are no longer a man. You are a witness. And the devil — the chotgor — never forgets a witness.

That was seven winters ago. Now when I close my eyes, I hear the creak of his saddle. Now when I drink airag , it tastes of iron and forgotten vows. My dogs growl at nothing. My eldest daughter woke up last week, and her eyes were his eyes — just for a breath.

I drew my bow. The arrow passed through him and split a boulder three miles behind. He smiled. His teeth were horse teeth. “You see me now,” he said. “So I see you forever.”

I was counting my herd by the Khalkh River. The sky turned the color of curdled mare’s milk. He said nothing. But inside my skull, his voice crawled like a centipede: “Give me your youngest son’s shadow. Give me your wife’s dream. Give me the name your mother whispered to the Earth Mother when you were born.”