“Hey, me again,” she says into the phone. It’s the voice she uses when she’s talking to my mom. “Yeah, she doesn’t seem to be doing much better … No, no, don’t cancel your conference lecture yet, but I’ll text you the website for this clinic in Tucson that Eddie found.”

I climb back up into the RV.

Doctors are a good plan. And my plan—my plan is a good one too. It hasn’t really gone like I wanted, that’s true, but maybe from now on it will, and if we can just make it to the treasure, make it to Something Gold, maybe it will be the kind of glittering treasure to lighten wherever the dark corners are in Ruth’s mind.

Now Ruth’s back on her bed and I’m in my loft and we’ve finally left Fort Stockton. The rain has started. It’s coming in a steady sheet over the windshield.

My mind is too buzzed and drizzly to focus on reading or taking good pictures. I’ve been attempting to read for almost an hour, but now I lay the book open on my stomach and put my hands under my head. I let my mind wander for a while. It goes to the normal things—treasure, pirates, pictures. Ruth.

Maybe all these things are bubbling around in my brain like ingredients in a cauldron, coming together into a perfect Something Magic picture.

Today would be a really good day to find some magic somethings, that’s for sure.

My legs are jittery. I lie on my back, my knees bouncing off each other until I feel bruised.

The rain is still pounding, making plinking noises on the roof.

We’ve been driving for hours. I check on Ruth again. She’s sitting up in bed, earbuds in, a pencil hovering over the notepad in her lap. I see metered lines, scribbles on the page corners.

She’s writing a song. Her face has a little more color. Maybe she did eat a few bites of pancake? Maybe they’re starting to do some good? The page is not quite half full.

I climb down from my loft, going to the fridge as an excuse. Maybe she’ll still be up to talking with me, like last night.

“Working on a song?” I say. I do my best to keep my voice casual, nonchalant. The surest way to shut her up is to make a big deal out of it.

She nods. I get a plastic spoon and a yogurt and sit at her feet. She doesn’t roll her eyes or tell me to move. The eraser of her pencil rests between her lips and there’s a crease along her forehead. Her eyes are still pained and dark, and this close I can see beads of perspiration along her hairline. There’s something frantic about her scribbling and erasing.