Hella Goode is The Fool

The tarnished silver Airstream squats in the desert like a middle finger to my chaotic past—the ex's betrayal, selling my birth center, everything that made me a retired midwife at fifty-three. Salt, my dog, knows something's shifting before I do—always does. Marfa calls, but I take one big fat detour. But some calls won't be ignored. 

This desert town deals in more than art installations and fantastic public radio. Here, magic has teeth, and babies, and my calling has tracked me down at the crossroads. 

Question is: am I ready to let this place remake me, or will I keep running from what I'm becoming?