She groped around the tent floor for the flashlight, turned it on. Eunjoo’s shiny black braids emerged from the top of the sleeping bag beside Calliope’s. Amy snored rhythmically, a doleful percussion, from the bag opposite the girl, her black boots and clothes laid between her bag and the tent wall. For a brief moment Calliope wondered if Amy was sleeping nude. Then she noticed an open suitcase at Amy’s feet. Clean clothes. Calliope must have smelled like a garbage compost. The whole sleeping compartment smelled of damp onions. She peeled herself from her bag and crept around the girl, quietly rustling through the contents, shining the light on the tags to check for sizes. Amy was much smaller than Calliope—what size were these campers? Child-sized clothes tucked to side of the suitcase, then a man’s and a woman’s. A family. The woman wore a medium, which would have fit under normal circumstances, but with her belly … She opted instead for the man’s gray sweatpants, rolled over at her hips, and a white thermal undershirt, long enough to cover her protruding midsection. Deodorant. She applied it profligately under her arms, her breasts, and in between her thighs. If she couldn’t wash, she could mask. She also found thick socks and a pair of women’s hiking boots that should have been too large but fit her swollen feet in wool socks. She finally felt appropriately dressed to wander the chilling desert.

She went in search of water. And Chance. Where was he sleeping?

The next two compartments were empty, but the crackling of burning wood filtered through the tent’s zippered flap. She unzipped charily and peeked out into the cold night air. From a lawn chair in the mud, Chance hunched toward the firepit, poking at embers with a stick.

“How’d you start a fire with rain-wet wood?” Calliope asked, only her face unzippered and visible, her nose already getting cold.

Wide grin lines dimpled Chance’s face, though he didn’t look up toward Calliope but stared ahead at the fire. “Mujer, arisen from the dead.” He continued prodding the wood, a shadow replacing the smile across his face, his eyes glowing more serious than playful. “Perdóname, Calliope. I’m not supposed to call you that anymore.” She nodded, swallowing back the metallic taste in her throat, and unzipped the flap the rest of the way, stepped her newly booted feet onto the mud. Chance stood, motioned for her to sit on the chair, but she continued standing. He said, “I would tell you the dry wood is magic, but you’ve already accused me of sorcery. I don’t want you thinking I’m anything but a humble physicist. There was wood in the tent.”

“Do you have any way of telling what time it is?”

He shrugged, but said, “Look up,” motioning with his eyes.