‘It’s a sign that something is going to happen,’ I explain.

‘If you look into the eyes of a coyote, you go crazy,’ Winfred says.

‘What else are you scared of?’ Jack says. ‘Snakes?’

‘Naa, snakes, naaaaa. Owls. I’m scared of owls.’

‘How can you be scared of owls?’

‘They’re a bad omen too. If you see an owl, someone close to you will die.’

‘Is there any animal you can look in the eye without dying?’ I ask drily.

‘Yuh,’ he says, ‘snakes. But you shouldn’t open your mouth when you see a snake, or it will jump in.’

‘Hey, you don’t scare me one bit,’ Jack says scornfully. ‘I’m not scared of nuthin’.’

We wind slowly around the Temerosa switchbacks heading home. My head feels heavy and woolly. Weather-wise it’s been a strange day, muggy and close, a stormy tinge to the sky. I’m tired and strangely depressed. I close my eyes for a second, trying to squeeze out a headache, but as I open them again an animal darts in front of the car. A small white-tailed deer. Instinctively I slam on the brakes. The truck lurches sideways, glances off the rocky corner of the hill, spins then slides inexorably towards the edge and, for one horrifying truncated moment, I’m paralysed with fear, then I yank the wheel and ram my foot down on the stiff lever of the hand brake. The car spins in a circle then, oh merciful God, stops.

My heart pumps furiously. Any faster, a few more feet, and we’d have been over that edge and into oblivion. Shakily, I turn to look at the children. They stare back at me, white, speechless. ‘It’s okay,’ I say as calmly as I can. ‘It’s okay. We’re just going to get the truck on the right side of the road again and then we’ll be fine.’ I ease the gears into neutral and try the ignition, but the engine, apparently resentful of such unnecessary cardiovascular exercise at this late hour of the evening, gives a sickly cough then promptly flatlines.

The truck’s bonnet opens via a lever underneath the passenger seat. I stare hopefully at the blackened greasy innards in case something wildly obvious presents itself to me, but it’s a futile exercise. I have mastered petrol and windscreen-wiper fluid, but I am unable to tell a growling minotaur from a purring battery. I slam the bonnet shut again.

‘What’s wrong?’ Jack is first out of the car.

‘I don’t know. It won’t start.’

‘Can’t you fix it?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know how.’

‘Why not?’