As if the gun were glued to her hands, she held it steadily. The man didn’t even halt, just walked calmly toward Calliope. He was tall and thick, muscular, wearing a button-down plaid flannel the color of hickory, only a shade or two darker than his skin, and brown cowboy boots. His glossy black hair swayed at his shoulders as he moved.

At twenty feet, Calliope called, “Stay back.”

He didn’t flinch or halt, but put his hands in the air, perhaps to show they were empty, which Calliope could already see.

“I’m serious. Stop moving,” Calliope called again, her voice keeling sharply. “I’ll shoot.”

“No, you won’t.” His voice was deep, melodic, his accent familiar. “No soy como él, señorita.”

“Hablas español?”

He smiled, his square jaw crackling into softer lines. “Sí.”

“A donde eres?”

His smile widened. “The rez.”

“You’re not Hispanic?”

“Half.” He wore a turquoise bracelet set in a wide, flat band of silver and a ring of turquoise and silver on his right hand.

“Why should I trust you?”

“I just shot that son of a bitch raping your friend, didn’t I?”

“Unless you wanted her for yourself.” The world since that red flash in the sky had no rules, or a set of rules Calliope didn’t understand. This man could have wanted anything.

“Nunca, mujer. Créeme. I would never.”

She did. Believe him. She wasn’t sure why, but his voice was calming; it echoed of Andres. Calliope lowered the gun. “Cómo te llamas?” She spoke the language of home, as if she’d found a member of her family.

“Chance Guardian,” he said, holding out his hand to shake hers.

She peeled one sweating palm off Susana’s gun and offered it to Chance.

Amy sputtered behind them, a snort. “You’re kidding, right?” Calliope turned around where her friend was leaning against the truck with the box of Camels in one hand, a lighter in the other. “That’s your name for real? You’re not messing with us? Chance Guardian?” Her voice was hard-edged, amused.

His grin intact, he motioned as if taking off an imaginary hat and bowed to the women. “Chance Guardian, mucho gusto.”

Amy pushed herself away from the truck with her boot, stepped over the dead man, her composure apparently regained in the time it took Chance to walk toward them. She lit a cigarette, inhaled, and as she exhaled, “All right then, Chance Guardian. What are you? An angel or something?”

Calliope smirked at her friend’s sass, relieved Amy wasn’t hurt.

“An angel? Afraid not, though that would be something. I’m A’shiwi, or as you Anglos might call us, Zuni. I’m also a grad student at the University of Texas in Dallas, a theoretical physics nerd.”