Another hour passes, an hour and three-quarters then, abruptly, the ground opens into a gaping ravine. I stop in dismay and squat down, tired and disheartened. My throat is dry, my head throbbing. It’s already two-thirty. I drink more water and eat the egg sandwich and apple from my backpack, minutely scanning the land on the other side. How could I have got it so wrong? The road should be there, it should be, but there’s only more cactus, more rock, more bloody juniper and mesquite. I am just coming to the conclusion that I’m going to have to turn back when something catches my eye. A series of quick flashes then the sun moves behind a cloud and they’re gone. I go on staring and slowly, slowly, as though drawn onto a treasure map with invisible ink, the road reappears. A rough winding track, cut into the opposite side of the cliff and, just below it, what can only be the tin roof of a cabin.

A spasm of nerves twists my stomach. Up until now this has been a hunch I’ve been close to dismissing as silly, but if this cabin represents what I think it does – a hiding place – then to continue would be to knowingly walk into danger. I vacillate for a bit but it’s no good, curiosity has me in its grip, and besides, I can’t bear to go on seeing my distrust of Benjamín reflected in his face. I walk the edge impatiently, looking for a way down, and am eventually rewarded by a break in the cliff, a wash of loose stones that looks as though it leads as near as dammit to the bottom. I start down tentatively, shoving my heel in hard with each step to keep from slipping, but soon default to sliding on my bottom. The wash becomes progressively narrower, finally tapering into a dead end between two jutting pieces of sheer rock above the canyon floor. I peer over the edge. It’s only about five feet to the bottom, maybe less. A hand on either side of the rock and I should be able to swing through and land safely. I wait to catch my breath but again, irrationally, I get the feeling I’m not alone. This time I spin round quickly only to discover I’m playing grandmother’s footsteps with a coyote. He stands at the top of the ravine, the remains of my apple core in his mouth. Reassured, I throw the backpack to the ground, then keeping my weight as evenly distributed as possible, swing through the gap in the rock and let go.