Chapter Two

Today’s the day, I think as I stride through the house. Outside I hear Arn swearing at our Jeep. Yeah, right, says the voice in my head. He’s never going to let you go.

I push open the screen door and step out on the porch. According to Arn, this land used to be called New Mexico, though there’s nothing new about it. For miles on either side of our yard, the scrubland, tumbleweeds and acres of dirt cover the landscape. Plant life consists of prickly cactus and squat, mean bushes that snag up my ankles. Animals are brown, wiry and should be avoided, unless you’re eating one. And the people, we’re made tough and prickly, too. I tell my mama this whenever she asks why Arn and me can’t get along.

The sun looms orange and round in the east. At eight a.m., it’s already sweltering. I squint down the road toward civilization. Our closest living neighbor is thirty miles east; the closest town, three hours after that. It’s torturous living out in what Auntie calls “the devil’s arse,” but from what we hear, the roads north and east team with road gangs. My parents won’t chance a townie life, and as my mama says, living where no one else would has its advantages. People leave you alone.

Out here we survive on what game Arn and I can trap and whatever plants my mama can coax out of her garden. Arn barters in town for the rest. If he is fixing the Jeep, it means he’s going to town for supplies. This time I’m determined to go.

I jump off the porch, the one we spend hours on, rocking, shucking beans and counting the minutes with our eyes on the road. I sidle over to where Arn’s legs stick out from under the rusted vehicle. My eyes trace over the mud-caked knees of his jeans, down to his boots with the hole in the right toe. A string of curse words float up from under the Jeep. I grip the rusty hood, take a breath and nudge his leg.

“What?!” There’s a clunk. Then more curse words.

He’s hit his head. Damn. Not a good start. I should turn around and eat breakfast with Auntie. Instead, I dig my toe into the dust and clear my throat.

“You going into town?” I say to his legs.

“What?” He wiggles out and pulls himself to a standing position next to the truck. He wipes oil from his hands onto a hankie and squints at me. His blue eyes sparkle on his dirty face like a glass bottle winking in a sand dune. “What’d you say?”

I run my finger along the top of the dented door. “I said, you going to town?”

Arn’s salt-and-pepper hair is matted to his forehead in sweaty clumps. The soiled overalls match his sun-browned skin as if he’s made completely of dust. Arn swipes at his face with the same rag he used to clean the oil off his hands. Some of it smears on his cheek. He regards me and then walks to the back of the Jeep. He squats and digs around in his toolbox.