“Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked. I craned my neck, trying to open my eyes, but the light wouldn’t let me. I barely blinked twice before fixing my gaze back on the slope. She sighed and lay down on the sand, still staring at the sun.

“Don’t worry, it’s okay. Most people don’t even have the guts to try,” she said, and closed her eyes. “You’ll get there eventually. That is, if you don’t pass out next time we climb the dune.”

I didn’t have anything witty to say, so I kissed her. She didn’t smile or anything, just said it was a punk move kissing a girl whose name I didn’t know.

5.

HER NAME WAS Ayala.

6.

HANDS REACHING OUT in the heavy heat. Gentle, tentative groping sticky with sweat and sand. The body operated differently in fifty degrees. Words dissolved, making way for long stretches of silence, inquisitive gazes, like children exploring their bodies for the first time.

After an indeterminable period of time, another real estate agent arrived on her planet. He was wearing a dark jacket and black trousers, dripping sweat along the sand. He found me and Ayala sitting by one of the craters and asked if he might steal a few moments of our time. Despite her limited patience, Ayala eventually agreed to listen on the condition that he bought a bag of prickly pears. He paid her and launched into his pitch, telling us this planet was worth a good few million. That it could be sold to a large research facility or to armies that wanted to train their soldiers under extreme conditions. He proceeded to explain that it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, that she could take the money and live on an artificial island in Miami, which was exactly the same as here only twenty degrees cooler.

“So what do you say?” he finally asked, by now almost suffocating from the heat, barely breathing.

She lowered her sunglasses and gave him a quick once-over. “I’m not selling my planet to someone who’d wear that suit in this heat,” she announced, flicked down her sunglasses and would say no more. He started throwing figures at her, unfathomable amounts of money that kept increasing. Three. Four. Five million dollars. But Ayala didn’t even bother to answer. I looked at him with something of an apology. Eventually he gave up, picked up the bag, and started walking toward his Mercedes spacecraft.

“Wait,” she called out when he was already a few meters from his vehicle. The guy tossed the bag of prickly pears onto the sand and came running back, asking if she had changed her mind.

“No, but this one here needs a ride,” she said, pointing at me.

“Don’t listen to her,” I said. “She’s crazy.”

The man turned on his heels, and Ayala closed her eyes and smiled.

7.