Chance lugged a metal propeller, then jammed it into the door handles, although a wrench lay on the floor. Apparently, it wasn’t large enough for him.

“Look, I appreciate all you’ve done. Killing that psycho. Talking to my bisabuela with me. Agreeing to help me find my family.” He didn’t look toward her or acknowledge that she’d said anything, but kept ramming the propeller into the handles, grunting with the effort. His forehead and neck were sweaty, his face scrunched with exertion. She leaned in and touched his arm, lowered her voice, conspiratorial. “Pero dime. Qué pasa?”

He shoved the propeller again, and it lodged horizontally between the handles.

“That might hold it,” he panted, wiping his sleeve across his forehead. He looked at Calliope as if just noticing her presence, the lines in his face furrowed. “Vamos. Ándale.” He pulled her arm, leading her back toward the plane.

She dragged her weight, shoving his arm away. “No. Come on, Chance. What’s this for?”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Like I wouldn’t have believed you could conjure my dead bisabuela?”

His eyes darted toward hers, his eyebrows raised. “I didn’t conjure anything.” He looked hurt. “Is that what you think? That I’m some kind of pinche magician? A charlatan?”

She didn’t know what she thought.

“Please, just trust me. That thermobaric explosion? It wasn’t a bomb. The things attacking? Not people. We need to hide.”

His eyes searched hers, probing, will you trust me?

The back of her neck prickled, her face flushed. She followed after him.

A rumbling from the back of the hangar, vibrating off the aluminum walls, then a cranking sound. Amy had turned the plane on. Ahead, propellers whirred, like huge blades of a fan, blowing a shock of air toward Calliope and Chance.

They hurried toward the plane.

“What are you doing?” They yelled as one, over the roar of the engine.

“I can fly us to Cruces. It’ll be faster. Hop in!” Amy yelled back.

“Turn that off. It’ll hear us!” Chance screamed.

“What?”

The propeller blew gusts of air toward Calliope. Ash. Swirling pieces of ash like black confetti. They eddied around her face. She coughed. Her whole body went cold, as if the temperature had dropped twenty degrees. Her skin prickled with gooseflesh. A pounding at the doors again. But this wasn’t Chance shoving a propeller into the door handles. He was standing next to her. The pounding was violent, like crashes of thunder, over and over.

“Too late,” Chance yelled. “Get in, mujer.”

Behind her, a cold breath. There had to be another way into the hangar. She’d thought it when she’d first arrived. How else had the ash gotten in?

“Chance?” she said, her voice wavering. “I think there’s someone behind us.”