I perused Coetzee-laden shelves until I found something that I was thirsty for, set among the acacia trees and the futile priests of New Mexico. In spite of my knowledge, the mythic American West still appealed to me.

Gun belt. Horsefly. Saguaro.

I sat down in the café area and ordered a coffee from a silent barista. It came in a tureen-shaped bowl, and I pretended that the drink was brewed in a heavy iron pot over an open fire on the western frontier instead of in a smudged glass Chemex.

I started reading. I wanted to be transported, to walk the harsh paths, to cheer for the Hopi and the Navajo, but all I could think about was Blithe, and his night in the desert, with scorpions.

Headphones were banned, so I picked up on the disciples’ whispers as they shelved new arrivals, wearing linen gloves.

“I really don’t know how I can keep working here at fifteen dollars an hour when I have 90K in student loan debt from my undergrad years and philosophy master’s.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“I know, I know. Thought above all.”

“Think of honor as a currency. It is an honor to be invited into this den of thought, the oasis in a desert of ignorance, plastic, non-English speakers, television watching, and emoticons.”

“I’ll try.”

I wrangled my attention and tried to read another page, but it was useless.

What was bright and hot on my brain was Margaret, on the verge of stealing a precious tool from a lover in the Sonoran. I saw horse hooves kicking up dust. And she was not alone: there was a man smoking a pipe in an Ethiopian coffee grove, a beekeeper scraping honey in the future city-state of Hente, a skin diver who had expanded the capacity of her lungs beyond science, all hovering close to the gems.

When the cuckoo clock struck three, the bookseller sat down at the table next to me. His disciples ambled over. One removed the bookseller’s shoes while another grabbed a bottle of apple cider vinegar. The third applied the ACV to a towel and started rubbing the bookseller’s feet. The first then retrieved a bottle of coconut oil. I left without buying the book before they reached the moisturizing stage.

Blithe was on my bed, eating saltwater taffy.

“Hey, so I happened to read on your pad the part in your Arrow-Line where Margaret is going to find the Echometer so she can track the gems and memories and I love it, that gives me the chills, like the part of film previews where the drama and the music come together in a crescendo—”

“Yeah, that’s called the Pinnacle, or, informally, the orgasm. It’s very cis-male-centered.”

Oof, Blithe was starting to enter the “identity consciousness” phase.

“Well, why don’t I help you work on the Arrow-Line and see if we can get the Echometer in there?”