Calliope wanted to answer we’re not landing until we get to Phoenix. The chart in her hands went blurry, the black crosses marking railroads turning to sutures, like those sewn across Calliope’s belly when Phoenix had cesareaned out of her. Nauseous, she narrowed her eyes at the map, trying to concentrate on finding a landing place, seeing nothing but wavy slashes.

“I just need a field, momma, come on. I can’t see beneath the ash.”

In answer, Calliope turned away from Chance, leaned toward the small cabin space beside her seat, and vomited a clear liquid across the floor.

“There’s a clearing at the City of Rocks,” Chance said. “It’s a state park.”

“I don’t need a tour guide, I need directions.”

Chance took the map from Calliope’s hands, whispered to her, “We’ll be alright, mujer.” To Amy, “We should be right over it. There’s a spur of road to the southeast of the rocks.”

While Chance leaned closer to the pilot’s seat giving Amy directions, Calliope unbuckled, turned around. Her stomach still ached and her body was shaking. But the girl should have been the one buckled, not her. “Eunjoo, crawl up here, chica. Hurry.” Her little braided head appeared, from a crawlspace covered with maps. Calliope scooped the featherlight girl over the mess she had made on the floor. She buckled Eunjoo in her seat, haunching beside her the way Chance had been hovering the whole ride. She squeezed the girl’s hand tightly, more for herself than Eunjoo, who didn’t seem terrified at all. Whenever Calliope had flown, most children’s composure had reassured her—happily chatting to their parents about the clouds, coloring or laughing above the turbulence. If children were calm, she should have been too. Or maybe they just didn’t understand the danger they were in.

Eunjoo squeezed back, leaned toward Calliope’s ear, whispered, “This isn’t the end of the dream, Phoenix’s mama. Don’t worry. We haven’t thrown the peach at the creature’s eye, we haven’t found the pit.” Calliope feigned a smile, reassured in the way of childhood hope and imagination. But Eunjoo continued, solemnly, “We still have to find the path.”

Calliope snapped her head toward Eunjoo’s face, looked sternly at the girl. Had she heard what Bisabuela had told her? About a path, una camina? Bisabuela had said Calliope was lost, but there was a path, a light.

The plane jerked violently, Amy yelling expletives as they dipped. Calliope forced herself to keep her eyes open. They were descending but not falling. An open field of withered yellow grass swayed into view, alongside a long strip of empty dirt road. Amy chanted as she pulled the wheel, steadied it, turned it toward the road, “I got this.”