Izzy fed Yard and stroked his shell with her finger, blinking softly at him, promising she’d be back soon. She let Dog out and fed him, knelt to stare into his eyes. He lay there, long legs tucked under him, head erect, waiting for his next instructions. “My friend is going to come pick you up later today,” she told him. “Yard, too. I love you, babies. I don’t know if it will be safe for you where I’m going.”

◆◆◆

White clouds galloped like horses through the blueness. She drove past mountains, ridged purple in the distance. A few wore light caps of snow, as if the clouds had come to rest there, but it wasn’t much snow for this time of year. Izzy thought about Sky’s lecture on global warming. Another way she lured all those people in.

Sky. Who was this woman, really? And what did she have to do with Cyrus? He had believed, somehow, that she was his mother. She had lurked around when he was a kid, and he had seen a flyer for her retreat and, without telling Izzy, he had gone with Nephy to visit Sky. It was easier to think about Sky than to think about what Cyrus and Nephy had done and what had happened to him afterward.

The cassette was still in the car stereo. Izzy pulled out the tape and looked at it. “For You,” the label said. Cyrus had written that. For her. Or had he? The cassette tape had slid out from under the seat; what if the tape was for Nephy, and Cyrus had lied to Izzy when she’d found it?

She opened the window and tossed the music out of the window into the desert.

◆◆◆

On the way, Izzy stopped at the farm Larry managed. Fields stretched along the highway, crops of lettuce now frilly little noggins. The threat of drought hung over everything like a cloud of dust. Southern California had been restricting water usage for a while now. It could easily get worse. Cape Town, South Africa, for instance was already preparing for the taps to be shut off, people to line up for their rations.

She saw Larry supervising some farm workers. He came over, hugged her. She stiffened even more than usual at the wiry feel of Larry’s arms and the bitter smell of tobacco.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“What do you think is wrong?” She couldn’t tell him anything more. She had forgotten her sunglasses in the truck, and even shielding her eyes didn’t help. Sunspots danced. She half-imagined creatures with lettuce-heads rising up from under the earth and shaking down the rows.

“Find out anything else?”

“Do you know who brought that film to Bombay Beach, Larry?”

“What film?”

“The film. With the woman. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Can’t say I do.”