Calliope nodded. She knew of the Trinity Site army base down there, though she’d never been. Andres had driven through on his way to Lincoln National Forest to help his crew fight a fire. He’d said it was beautiful, like hills of snow for sledding. Warm snow. He’d brought her a plastic bagful and they’d put it in a jar on the kitchen windowsill, promising Phoenix they’d take him closer to Halloween. Trinity Site was open to the public then, and Calliope had wanted a historical tour. She had a grim fascination for the atomic splitting, that nuclear explosion that had left cattle at a nearby ranch without hair, and when it had grown back, it was white and mottled, pocked with the evidence of the bomb—where lightning had burned sand into green glass and carbon bodies had clotted together. But Cruces in the summertime was scorching. 106 degrees some days. Warm snow Calliope could handle, but not hell snow. A pang of guilt sprang from her stomach to her chest like heartburn. Or were the twins kicking? She should’ve taken Phoenix anyway. She should’ve let him roll down the white hills like a desert snow angel. She should’ve done so many things. She berated herself thinking he were dead, that she might not find him and take him to White Sands. No. She wouldn’t be able to move one swollen foot in front of the other if she didn’t stop thinking that way.

“Let’s hope whoever crashed it left the keys,” Amy said. “Or I’ll have to hot-wire it. Haven’t done that in forever.”

Amy was one piece of kismet in this nightmare. One shiny penny.

“You have a screwdriver in here?”

“I’m sure Andres left one in the trunk. He’s got all sorts of tools back there.”

Twenty yards from the mesquite truck sculpture, Calliope stopped the car. The accident made her uneasy. She checked on Eunjoo, still sleeping, still wearing Phoenix’s backpack like a child’s comfort blanket. A small red bloom seeped through the bandage on Eunjoo’s hand.

Amy was already out of the car, tromping through dirt and brush in her high black combat boots, reminding Calliope of a tattooed soldier. She wanted to call out for her to wait, be careful, but instead she pushed open the glove compartment. There was Susana’s gun. It startled Calliope, cold in her hand. She got out, looped her finger through the trigger, and pointed it toward the scrub on the ground. She should’ve worn thicker socks and boots, each step kicking up sand, filling her ballet flats with pebbles. Creosote scratched her calves. She squinted against the wind. “Amy?” Her voice came out a whisper. She didn’t want to find dead bodies.

The truck’s ignition roared to life, and Calliope aimed the gun at the driver’s side.