“Mujer, I don’t know much about pregnant ladies except what I went through with my lady and our daughter, but I don’t think you’re supposed to be chopping wood if you can help it. Here, let me.”

She paused, rested the ax on the wood, caught her breath. “Who is that guy? Where’d he come from?”

“Vegas.”

“His name is Vegas or he came from Vegas?”

Chance laughed. “You should come inside and meet him.”

“Why?”

“He’s got an interesting story.”

“I’m tired of stories.”

“I know.” He sighed, reached for Calliope’s hands, peeled off the gloves, put them on his own hands. He took the ax, and she stepped aside. “But that’s why you need to keep listening.”

“Who are you, Chance?”

“A guide, remember? Bisabuela said so.”

She laughed uncomfortably. “About that, did you, I mean, when we were in the hangar …” What would she ask? Whether he had drugged her, given her a hallucinogen?

“I’m just an Indian science nerd, mujer. Nothing special. But I made you a promise and I’m trying my damnedest to keep it. That means no swinging an ax or running toward gunfire. I’m no doctor, and I know nothing about childbirth. Don’t go getting yourself into labor here, understand?”

He smiled, but her skin turned gooseflesh.

Labor. She hadn’t even allowed for the thought of giving birth without Andres. A paramedic who’d grown up in a small town in northern New Mexico, he’d helped deliver plenty of babies. He’d been with Calliope for Phoenix’s birth.

It had never occurred to her she’d have to find someone else to help her give birth.

In Spanish they said dar a luz—give light. She felt dark and cold.

* * * *

The stranger who’d called himself a friend had made himself comfortable in front of the fire. He’d taken off his hunting cap, revealing a thick mop of tightly coiled curls, and was eating chocolate chip cookies from a box Mara had given him from Tía’s pantry. His voice was raspy though convivial with a Southern drawl. Calliope wondered how she ever could have mistaken him for Andres. She shouldn’t have needed to see his rich, brown skin, the color of clay deep in the earth, two or three shades darker than her husband’s, to know it wasn’t him. He was taller and more broadly-­built than Andres as well.

His name was Buick Janes and he was on his way home to New Orleans but had gotten lost.

“In the snow?” Calliope had asked.

“Nah, ma’am. Even before that.”

He told her his story. He’d been on vacation in Las Vegas, triple cherries at the slot machines, enough to take his girlfriend out for steak and lobster, when the casino lights began flashing. As if in a dream—he couldn’t find the city, couldn’t find the lights.