No.

No.

On the other side—railroad tracks that seemed to lead nowhere. The air permeated with the stench of putrefied water from the Salton Sea.

◆◆◆

Izzy and Dog got to Joshua Tree by late morning. They drove down the Twentynine Palms Highway, past the rows and rows of oddly shaped yucca brevifolia, or izote de desierto, “desert dagger.” How weird that Joshua Trees were a type of lily—they looked so fierce and primitive. Hunched and stunted, but fierce. A different kind of annunciation.

She turned onto a side road leading to the retreat center and kept driving. The building sat back from the road behind a row of palm trees and a thick white plaster wall. Izzy parked, got out, stretched her legs, and let Dog pee. He side-eyed her, as if for reassurance, and she met his gaze. It’s okay. Antlered branches and palm tree debris like strips of dried meat blocked the way here and there, and she kicked them aside. The air was unusually still, holding its breath, as if awaiting the heat of the day.

Izzy, with Dog following neatly at her heels—someone had trained him; how could such a beautiful, well-trained dog have been abandoned at a gas station?—walked through the entrance and into a small terra-cotta-tiled courtyard. Coral and magenta bougainvillea flowered the façade of the house and arborescent saguaros beckoned visitors toward the wooden door. It was open, and a sign read, “Retreat Center. Welcome.”

Steps led down from the entry room into an inner, pillared courtyard with a rectangular stone fountain surrounded by potted palm trees under a rectangular skylight. People mingled about, making conversation. Hippies, hikers, bikers, a few touristy types, as well as yoga babes and some skeezy-looking older dudes. One overbaked man with a depraved droop to his mouth and a camera around his neck chatted up a blonde woman with large breasts and floral tattoo sleeves. A little boy, his hair like a dandelion floret, sat cross-legged at her feet, playing with a small wooden pig on wheels.

Another man, wearing a gauze shirt, jeans, and sandals, approached Izzy. The man’s hair and beard curled like leaves, and bushy brows like vines shaded his eyes. She thought she detected a faint red dot, like a fading tattoo, in the center of his forehead. Forehead tattoos—not a good sign.

“Welcome,” he said. He took Izzy’s hands in his own—cool and long-fingered—and she quickly drew her hands away.

“Gorgeous creature.” The man smiled down at Dog, who had pressed up against Izzy’s leg, but didn’t touch him. “Therapy dog, I assume. You’re here for the meeting?

“Yes.”

“And you are?”

“Aurora,” she said, without thinking. It was what Cyrus had called her sometimes. Aurora for dawn, her favorite time of day. Mama Dawn. Pink Sky. She regretted choosing this fake name, this name that reminded her of Cyrus, but it was too late. And at least she hadn’t given her own name. It seemed unwise to do so based on the forehead tattoo alone.