She nodded, recited the story she’d learned as a child. “In Shipapu, the first two girls were born. The spirit Tsichtinako spoke to them, fed them, but wouldn’t show itself to them. They lived in the dark a long time. Then they were given baskets of seeds, which they planted, and the fastest-­growing tree broke into light. The sisters followed the light, climbed above, greeted the four directions and the sun.” She sang, quietly, “Already a long time ago from the underworld, southward they came with cloud, with fog, carrying useful things,” then stopped singing, whispered, “and their eyes hurt in the new light.”

She was shaking with cold. Cupped her hands toward the fire.

“Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

“Are you saying we’re in a myth? The myths are real ?”

“No.” He prodded the fire with his boot. Sparks rose. “I’m saying they’re not myths.”

A swilling in her gut. She scanned his face for a hint of a smile, the trickster she worried he might turn out to be. He was holding her gaze, stony and sober. She shivered. Her voice small, she asked, “Will we find them? My family …”

He sighed. “I don’t think they’re dead if that’s what you’re asking.”

She nodded, for that was exactly what she was asking.

“I’ll help you look for them. I promised you that already.”

Because tears were stinging her eyes and she didn’t want to cry in front of him again, she stood, wrapped her arms around her chest, took a deep breath. “I’m assuming we’re not leaving until sunrise? Whenever that is.”

“It’s not safe otherwise.”

“Then I’m going back to sleep. These babies sap my energy.” She walked toward the tent, paused, turned to Chance, who had already settled back into the lawn chair, his rifle still slung over his shoulder. He was looking up at the stars. “Shouldn’t you get some sleep?”

“Me? Nah. I’m fine. I slept in Tejas.” He winked, and she laughed. “I’ll keep watch.”

She stepped into the tent, not asking what he’d keep watching for.

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