He let go of Calliope’s waist, dug into the white earth with his hands, opening a small pit, unlatched his bracelet, took off the ring from his finger, pulled the necklace over his head, and dropped them all in. Buried them. He murmured words in Zuni as he repacked the earth.

He nodded to the bowl in the girl’s small hands. “Drink it, mujer. If it’s from Old Lady Salt, then she is blessing you.”

Calliope’s head throbbed with dehydration. There was no way drinking salt water was a good idea. She didn’t need an emetic.

If the water was not from Old Woman Salt, Calliope could die.

But where else would Eunjoo have gotten the water? The snowcone jar was gone, crashed against the rock wall. Calliope hadn’t seen any other water in the truck and the lake was hundreds of feet away.

She took Bisabuela’s bowl from the girl, remembering the clay water she’d drunk in the hangar, how she’d trusted Bisabuela, ghost or not. She could trust Bisabuela again, even if she didn’t believe in Old Lady Salt.

Chance must have sensed her hesitation. He said, “She’s capable of great things, great movement, mujer. She can get you to the rez unharmed. I know she can.”

This time the bowl was warm. Its contents smelled of seawater, and for a moment as she held the water to her mouth, she recalled accidentally swallowing a gulpful of the Gulf of Mexico in Boca Chica the summer after Phoenix was born. They’d still lived in Texas and she’d carried him into the warm Gulf waters as a kind of secular baptism (she’d told her mother no, she would not have him baptized in the Catholic church), every experience a new introduction to the world. But a wave had knocked her forward and they’d both gone under. She’d sputtered and pulled him from the water, sure she’d drowned her child. His eyes red and wide against the sun, he wasn’t coughing or crying. He was a sea turtle, resilient. She’d handed him back to Andres on the dry sand, watched him scoop handfuls into the air, into his hair, laughing his drool-mouthed, toddler laugh. She’d felt slogged with salt all afternoon, but he was fine.

She swigged the bitter saltwater now, swallowing the nausea swishing her gut. She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to feel other than sick.

She was cold.

Eunjoo and Chance had been wrong. Or they’d tricked her. She would die on the salt beds in the fourwing brush, her babies drowning inside of her.

The bowl fell to the dirt.

She lay on her side, curled as a seashell. Cramping. Emptying. Drying.

This was what dying felt like.