As she’d thought, they were less than an hour from Silver City. They could take Highway 61 to the 180 and be there in forty minutes. She almost laughed aloud. She imagined the look on Phoenix’s face when she stepped through the door of Tía’s house, the same as when she’d come home from an out-of-town conference. He would be sitting in front of the fireplace, drinking hot cocoa, listening to Tía’s stories, but he would jump when he saw her, spilling chocolate on the floor. Andres would be there. And her mother. They wouldn’t believe what she’d been through—how she’d finally turned into the Indiana Jones she’d always wanted to be.

She called out, “Let’s grab some food and go. We’re almost there.”

“How many miles?” Chance asked from his perch on the boulder above her.

She checked the map again, using the space of her finger and thumb in an open pinch to mark the miles of highway between her and Phoenix. “Only thirty-five if we take the 61 to the 180. It’s a little farther south before it shoots northwest, but it’s the quickest route.”

He sighed loudly. “And if we walk there instead?”

She didn’t laugh at his dumb joke. “Why would we walk?” She followed his gaze past the rock city. Yellow grass and shrubs as far as she could see. A small cabin-like structure in the distance, probably a visitor center. Dirt roads. A lake. Hills in the farther distance and the mountain range, inky black behind everything else. Her stomach dropped. What didn’t she see?

Cars. There were no cars. How long did it take to walk thirty-five miles?

A drizzle of rain. She pulled her arms around her body, wiping the water from her skin. “We’ll take the plane,” she said, defiantly, her eyes stinging against the drizzle.

Amy called from the tent, “I’m not flying that air pig again, momma. In fact, no one is.”

“I don’t mean fly. We could drive it, right? It’ll drive across the dirt, at least until we find a car.”

Amy emerged from the tent’s mesh doorway, holding an open bag of Chili Cheese Fritos, chomping away. “No, lady. It’s a miracle we made it down. I’m talking Jesus Christ Superstar, full-on, put-us-in-the-Bible miracle. We were out of fuel. I didn’t say anything ’cause of … you know … you were throwing up and stuff …” She shoved a few more chips in her mouth. “But yeah, I have no idea why we’re not all dead.” She paused a moment, then added, “Maybe we are dead. Do the dead like Fritos?” She tipped the open bag toward Calliope. The fake chili smelled chemically repugnant. Nausea uncoiled. Calliope turned away from the chips, face scrunched, shaking her head no, unable even to feign politeness.