Ethan drinks and rests for a moment. Then he sees Clay blocking out more of the sun.

“Sorry, Clay,” he says, still wheezing.

“No problem, hoss. One time when I was your age, I got sunstroke, blacked out and pissed my pants. Try explaining that to your pa.”

Ethan smiles, but at the mention of his dad, his face falls. He looks up at me. “I wish we were home, Riley,” he whispers.

“I know.” The emotion chokes in my throat. I push the sticky hair out of his eyes. He would normally bat my hand away if I did this in front of Clay, but not this time.

I lift his pack and mine. It’ll be a struggle and my boots have already worn blisters on both big toes and the left heel. I smile at my brother. “Come on,” I say. “I bet in town they might have caramels. If you’re good, I’ll get you one.”

His face lifts. “Clay, do they have caramels?”

Clay lends him a hand up. “Any town worth a damn’s got caramels.”

When Ethan falls the second time, I run over to him again, pick him up and get him the water. I glance up at Clay who’s leaning down with concern on his face.

“How much longer?” I ask Clay, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.

Clay scans up the road. The sun’s growing fat and orange in the west which means we’re close to dusk. When the sun goes down, we’ll be forced to camp without shelter while the nocturnal predators prowl for their suppers. This situation can’t get much worse. I fight the panic that’s clawing at my throat.

Clay takes off his hat and wipes the sweat off his brow. “Think we got another mile or two.”

“Which is it?” I ask, the panic gathering. “One mile we can do. Two, he’ll never make it.” I grit my teeth and brush the sand off Ethan’s cheeks.

“One mile,” Clay says. He picks Ethan up and puts him on his back.

I scan up and down the road again. The fact that there’s no traffic to this “town” is a bad sign. If there is some bustling city center one mile away, wouldn’t trucks be coming and going? Clay probably has no idea what he’s talking about. Good thing he’s a crack shot. He’ll need to be to defend us from the swarms of coyotes.

Only when we begin to spot road trash do I believe there’s a chance Clay might be right. The tumbling bits of paper, old mufflers, rusting food cans—all mean people have been here. Clay points to an empty water jug. “See,” he says, giving me an I-told-you-so look. Then he picks up the pace. Even with my brother on his back, he’s hard to keep up with.