My thighs stick to the hot seat, my fingers touch-tapping the baked vinyl of the wheel. My face tingles—feels stretched over my skull as the capillaries dilate in the hot van. The sun filters through the dirty glass. Bracelets of sweat form under the tight cuffs of my polyester chiffon blouse. I smear more Vicks VapoRub under my nose. Bet it’s shining like a star. But Dale’s starting to spoil, and I can’t take it much longer. I’m praying for the red truck to get here soon.

There’s nothing to see but rocks and brush, and I wonder why this place is called Red Rocks. The rocks aren’t red. Every shade of orange and pink—some almost purple, but no red. Should be called Tequila Sunrise, or maybe Barbie’s Deathtrap.

The small fuzz of a dirt cloud in the distance is getting taller, getting closer. I’m hoping it’s that red truck, and I’m praying it’s closer than it looks. I need to get this van moving—get the windows down and the wind over my face. Push this stink into the back, where it belongs. It was bad enough when it was the deer and piles of rabbits and armadillos—but, now, Dale . . . He reeks.

***

In the East, they call them monsters. In the South, it’s devils. In the West, they all just assume it’s people from Portland. But here in the Southwest, it’s always aliens. In the microcosm of my van, they’re all a bit of this and a bit of that, stitched together. An armature of deer bone supporting a motley of beaver and bear; snakes and squirrel; alligator; coyote and rabbit. Dale. Whatever has been (or can be) hit with a van. But I know this is what he would have wanted. I know the man’s wants—know them every which way. And that makes it easier, the knowing.

***

The dirt billowing off the back tires of whatever’s coming this way hangs in the air. If I listen, I can almost hear an engine. I’m hoping it’s not a crazy desert person. Praying it’s not the police. That would give the game away.

More Vicks.

I start the van. Maybe, if it’s not the red truck, I can outrun them. I check the mirror, and have to crank it to see past the deer strapped into the back seat, its legs folded in like a spider’s, past Dale’s head that bobs with the chug of the struggling engine. He’s wrapped in a white motel sheet that isn’t quite white anymore.

No cars behind. Just that cloud up ahead. In the sparkle rising off the hot pavement, a smear of red. And I thank God.