Gold Fame Citrus

BOOK ONE

Punting the prairie dog into the library was a mistake. Luz Dunn knew that now, but it had been a long time since she’d seen a little live thing, and the beast had startled her. She’d woke near noon having dreamed a grand plan and intending to enact it: she would try on every dress in the house. They hung like plumage in the master closet, in every luscious color, each one unspeakably expensive — imagine the ones the starlet had taken with her! In the dream Luz had worn every dress all at once, her breasts bestudded with rhinestones and drenched in silver dust, her ass embroidered with coppery alleyways of sequins, pleated plumes of satin fanning from her hips, pale confectioners’ tulle floating like spun sugar at her feet. Of course, things went one-at-a-time in the lifeless waking world.

It was important to have a project, Ray said, no matter how frivolous. The Santa Anas winged through the canyon now, bearing their invisible crazy-making particulate, and Ray said she should try to keep her hands busy. She should try not to sleep so much. Some of Ray’s projects included digging out the shitting hole and siphoning gasoline from the luxury cars abandoned throughout the canyon.

Yesterday, Luz’s project had been to present Ray with a gift of herself swaddled like a chocolate in a fur coat she’d excavated from one of the cavernous hall closets, though she was not so dark as chocolate. She’d roasted under the mink, her upper lip already jeweled over and trembling with sweat when she breached the backyard where Ray was working, into the ever-beaming, ever-heating, ever-evaporating sun. Sun of suns. Drought of droughts. These were their days now, Luz and Ray and the merciless sun up in the canyon, a family of light in this mansion cantilevered into the hillside, a bridge for a driveway. Luz had shucked the preposterous coat to the dirt and instead napped naked on a sun-stiffened chaise under the lines of a leafless grapevine until dinner. The once Ray approached her, sliding his hand between her knees, she’d groaned: too hot for sex. The mink was still heaped out back, sculpture of a failure.

This project was better, she confirmed, twisting before the easel mirror in a peachy silk shift, lovely even against her grimy skin. In the closet was a handwoven poncho of oranges and golds, perfect for the shift, except wool was suicide. Instead, a Hermès scarf — no, a delicate tennis bracelet whose tiny clasp gave her some trouble. Like dewdrops strung around her wafer wrist, something the photographers would have said. But practically everyone was thin now. Luz stepped out of the shift and wriggled into a clinging cobalt mermaid gown dense with beads. It was gorgeous and she was gorgeous in it, even with her filthy hair and bulgy eyes and bushy brows and teeth that jutted out from her mouth as if leading the way, the front two with a gummy gap between them that caused her to seal her thin top lip to her plump bottom lip, even when she was alone, even now as she twirled and the dangly beads went click click click, softly. She looked liquid and wanted to show Ray.

Luz tromped down the floating railless stairs in the gown and rubber galoshes and a feather headpiece, baubles winking on every finger and one wrist. At the bottom of the stairs, she froze. Across the foyer, watching her, the tawny, beady-eyed rodent. It stood on its hind legs. It sniffed the air. Its nimble claws worked at something. Kind of cute. Except it dipped its head and maybe came at her. Luz panicked, shrieked, and executed a long-stride slo-mo kick of unexpected grace and force, some long-lost AYSO girlhood reflex risen from the resin of her quads.

They were a tired joke, the galoshes. Ditto umbrellas, slickers, gutters and storm drains, windshield wipers. This place had not seen so much rainfall as to necessitate galoshes in her entire life. But thank God for them, else the rodent might have ribboned her bare foot with its claws instead of flying through the open door of the library, going scree. A horrifying sound, that scree, and in her horror Luz slammed the blond wood door closed, setting it shuddering on its casters. A cruel instinct she was paying for hours later, for she was now plagued with a hefty boredom and the melancholy of finishing an excellent book — a biography of John Wesley Powell — and had nothing new to read.

The question, now, was whether to interrupt Ray — in the yard constructing a half-pipe from the plywood they’d pried off the windows and doors of the starlet’s ultramodern château — or to handle this prairie dog situation herself. Scree, it said. She went out onto the balcony and called down to her love.

Ray squinted up at her and whistled. “Looking good, babygirl.”

Luz had forgotten about her mermaid ensemble, and a little zing of delight accompanied the compliment. “How’s it coming?” she called.

“What an embarrassment,” he said, shaking his head. “Ten million empty swimming pools in this city, and we get this one.”

The embarrassment was adjacent to his would-be half-pipe: the starlet’s long-drained swimming pool, its walls not smooth concrete but a posh cobble of black river stones, its shape not a scooped-out basin but a box. Hard edges and right angles. Patently unshreddable. A shame, was all Ray said when he first knelt down and felt it, though his eyes had gone a pair of those smooth, globular kidney pools in the Valley. Ray had been to the forever war — was a hero, though he’d forbidden the word — and he went places sometimes.

Here, he was shirtless, all but gaunt, torquing his knees against a pane of plywood. His unbound hair was getting long, clumped and curling at his shoulders. On the bottom of the dry pool were smeared a few dreadlocks of dehydrated slime, pea-colored and coppery. Haircuts, Luz thought. Tomorrow’s project.

She watched him work a while, leaning on the balcony rail as the starlet might have. It was impossible to be original and inspired living as she was, basically another woman’s ghost. Ray could dismantle the starlet, splinter her, hack her up and build with her bones, but Luz languished beneath her. They wore the same size everything.

When Ray said up in the canyon Luz had seen porticos and candelabra, artisanal tiles, a working bath with a dolphin-shaped spigot patinaed turquoise and matching starfish handles, birds’ nests in chandeliers, bougainvillea creeping down marble columns and dripping from those curlicue shelves on the walls of villas — what were they called? But the place they found was boxy and mostly windows. All slate and birchply, its doors slid rather than swung, the wrong style for columns. Any and all vinery was dead. Plantwise there was the dried pool slime and the gnarled leafless grapevine and spiny somethings coming through the planks of the deck, too savage to kill.

Below her Ray’s hammer went whap whap whap.

Sconces, they were called, and there were none.

Where were the wild things seeking refuge from the scorched hills? Where was the birdsong she’d promised herself? Instead: scorpions coming up through the drains, a pair of mummified frogs in the waterless fountain, a coyote carcass going wicker in the ravine. And sure, a scorpion had a certain wisdom, but she yearned for fauna more charismatic. “It’s thinking like that that got us into this,” Ray said, correct.

Nature had refused to offer herself to them. The water, the green, the mammalian, the tropical, the semitropical, the leafy, the verdant, the motherloving citrus, all of it was denied them and had been denied them so long that with each day, each project, it became more and more impossible to conceive of a time when it had not been denied them. The prospect of Mother Nature opening her legs and inviting Los Angeles back into her ripeness was, like the disks of water shimmering in the last foothill reservoirs patrolled by the National Guard, evaporating daily.

Yet Luz yearned for menagerie, left the windows and doors open day and night to invite it, even when Ray complained of the dust, even when he warned that the Santa Anas would drive her insane. Maybe true, for here was this varmint scurrying in her head. Here, finally, was a brave creature come down to commune in the house that wasn’t theirs — it didn’t belong to anyone! — and what had she done? Booted the little fellow in the gut and locked him away.

Air hazy and amber with smoke. Malibu burning, and Luz’s old condo with it. Ticks clinging to the dead grass. Sand in the bedsheets and in her armpits and in the crack of her ass. Jumping bugs nesting in the mattress, all the more pestilent for being probably imagined. Some ruined heaven, this laurelless canyon.

Luz had read that they used to fight fires by dangling giant buckets from helicopters, filling the buckets at a lake and then dumping the water on them. The skies were batshit back then: bureaucrats draping valleys under invisible parachutes of aerosols, engineers erecting funnels to catch the rain before it evaporated, Research I universities dynamiting the sky. Once, an early canyon project, Luz and Ray hiked up the mountain called, horrifically, Lookout, and came upon a derelict cloud seeder, one of those barn-size miracle machines promised to spit crystalline moisture-making chemicals into the atmosphere. Another time they hiked up a back ridge and picnicked above that colorless archipelago of empty and near-empty tanks strung throughout the city. They ate crackers and ration cola and told stories about the mountains, the valley, the canyon and the beach. The whole debris scene. Because they’d vowed to never talk about the gone water, they spoke instead of earth that moved like water. Ray told of boulders clacking together in the ravine, a great slug of rubble sluicing down the canyon. That’s what geologists called it, a slug, and Luz was always waiting for the perfect slug, slow and shapeless and dark, filling all spaces, removing all obstacles. Scraping clean their blighted floodplain.

Ray often went up to the ridge with the notebook he kept in his pocket, but Luz had not been back. Some things were beyond her, such as opening the door to a seldom-used library walled with biographies of Francis Newlands and Abraham Lincoln and Lewis and Clark and Sacajawea and William Mulholland and John Muir (whom she had her eye on) and capturing the small gnawing mammal inside.

She went back to the starlet’s closet, dumped a pair of never-worn espadrilles from their box and brought the empty box to the yard. “I think there’s a prairie dog in the library,” she told Ray.

Ray stopped his hammering. “A prairie dog.”

Luz nodded.

“How’d it get in there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you put it in there?”

“More or less.”

“When?”

“Can you get it out?”

“Leave it,” he said, turning back to the half-pipe skeleton. Ray was not a reader. He used to read the newspaper every morning, but now that the newspapers were gone he said he was through with the whole reading and writing thing, though Luz had read the secret poems in his notebook.

“It’s not… humane,” she said, offering him the box. “Plus it’s probably crapping everywhere.”

He sighed, unbuckled his tool belt — some long-gone handyman’s — took the shoe box and loped into the house. She followed. He paused outside the library door. “How big was it?”

“Like, a football? I think it was rabid,” she lied. She was beginning to feel ridiculous.

He slid the library door closed behind him. Luz listened. The canyon was hot and still and so was the house. Then came a clamorous ruckus from the library. Ray said, Shitfuck. He said, Jesus.

He emerged like a wildman character making an entrance in a play, vexed and slamming the door behind him.

Luz asked, “Where’s the box?” Ray raised a silencing hand and strode from the foyer into the cavernous living room. Luz followed. He paced madly for a minute before seizing upon the sooty black poker by the fireplace and returning to the library.

Luz sat on the second step of the staircase and waited. There was more ruckus, a crash, the screeching of a desk chair shoved along the exposed concrete floor. Swears and swears. Then quiet. She wanted to open the door but would not.

“Did you get it?” she called eventually.

The door slid open a sliver and Ray’s red and sweaty head poked out. “You better not look.”

Luz put her face in the basin of her hands, then immediately lifted it. She gasped. Ray was before her. Aloft at the end of the poker, the throbbing body of the prairie dog, impaled. Its mouth was open and its forepaws twitched once, twice. Ray hustled outside.

Luz stood, queasy and overheated. She hovered above herself and saw that she was undergoing one of those moments in which she was reminded that Ray — her Ray — had, as part of his vocation, killed people.

She turned around and lurched up the stairs. She did not want to be around when he returned. Halfway up, she tripped. The floating stairs had always unnerved Luz and now they enraged her. She kicked the leaden galoshes from her feet down to the living room with some effort, staggered barefoot to the darkened bedroom, peeled off the suddenly chafing mermaid gown, climbed into the massive unmade bed and wept in the sandy nest of it.

She wept briefly for the creature, and then at great length for all her selves in reverse. First for Luz Dunn, whose finest lover and best friend was a murderer and perhaps always would be, then for Luz Cortez, mid-tier model spoiled then discarded. Emancipated at fourteen, her father’s idea, something he’d prayed on, amputated from him and from child labor laws. Then, finally and with great relish, she wept for Baby Dunn. Poster child for promises vague and anyway broken, born on the eve of some symbolic and controversial groundbreaking ceremony, delivered into the waiting blanks of a speech written for a long-forgotten senator:

Conservation’s golden child arrived at UCLA Medical Center at 8:19 this morning, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. William Dunn of San Bernardino, California. Eight pounds, eight ounces, the child has been adopted by the Bureau of Conservation, which embarks today on an heroic undertaking that will expand the California Aqueduct a hundredfold, so that Baby Dunn and all the children born this day and ever after will inherit a future more secure, more prosperous, and more fertile than our own. We break ground today so that there will be fresh water for drinking, irrigation and recreation waiting for Baby Dunn and her children…

Baby Dunn, born with a golden shovel in her hand, adopted and co-opted by Conservation and its enemies, her milestones announced in press releases, her life literal and symbolic the stuff of headlines, her baby book lousy with newspaper clippings:

GOVERNOR SIGNS HSB 4579; EVERY SWIMMING POOL IN CALIFORNIA TO BE DRAINED BEFORE BABY DUNN IS OLD ENOUGH TO TAKE SWIMMING LESSONS.

BABY DUNN STARTS KINDERGARTEN TODAY WITHOUT GREEN FIELDS TO PLAY IN.

LAST CENTRAL VALLEY FARM SUCCUMBS TO SALT: BABY DUNN, 18, NEVER AGAIN TO TASTE CALIFORNIA PRODUCE.

BERKELEY HYDROLOGISTS: WITHOUT EVACS BABY DUNN WILL DIE OF THIRST BY 24.

Now Luz was twenty-five and hung up on the logistics. Had her parents been paid? Was her envoyery prearranged or hatched last-minute? Some intern of the senator’s staked out in the maternity ward? Some go-getter do-gooder from a public Ivy, recorder in his coat pocket, scouring the waiting room for a photogenic and verbose new parent? How this young gunner must have delighted at finding Luz’s father, big German teeth, a pastor and a salesman, moved by the spirit to join the Rotary Club, to hit the gym by six every morning, to display the apple of his eye in church talent shows, to spend his wife’s financial aid on very good hair plugs. Billy Dunn would not have been in the delivery room, certainly not. Not his business to witness his wife’s woman’s body undergo its punishment. Not permitted by his temperament to acknowledge anything uterine, vaginal, menstrual, menopausal, pubescent. Not here, on the day of his only child’s birth, nor later when Luz’s mother was dead and Luz got leggy and bled purple and shreddy brown, when he could have said what was happening to her and what to do about it, when he could have said, as any man could have, what lay ahead for her. But he did not say, and instead she had stolen a plaid dishrag from the kitchen and cut it into strips with her dead mother’s scalloped scrapbooking scissors — such that the rag strips shared the peppy border of her baby book clippings — and tucked these strips up between her labia. Instead, she had learned from the other girls and from the photographers, often.

Luz, said Billy Dunn, is my cross to bear.

It was this she always landed on: her father pious and a chatterbox, maybe nervous, approached by a statesman’s underling in the hospital waiting room. Saying her name so it rhymed with fuzz before her mother, channeling Guadalajara, had a chance to correct him. Random, how she became the goddesshead of a land whose rape was in full swing before she was even born. Baby Dunn.

The ration hour came and went; Luz heard the hand pump screeching and Ray beneath her, filling his jug and hers. She lay in bed a long time, snotty and damp and staring at the dark drawn curtains and the heaps of clothing she’d mounded all over the room that were the millions of holes that pocked every hillside of the canyon, each with a tiny grainy dune at its mouth. She had thought the holes to be the burrows of chipmunks, but knew them now to be snake holes. Mammals were out. LA gone reptilian, primordial. Her father would have some scripture to quote about that.

After some time, Ray came into the bedroom and set a glass of lukewarm water on her nightstand. He stayed, silent, and Luz said, “Can you bring me John Muir?”

“Sure.” He went out, came back, and set the volume on the nightstand, beside her undrunk water. He perched himself on his edge of the bed and leaned over to touch her, gently.

“Say something,” she said. “Make me feel better.”

“I love you?”

“Not that.”

He offered the glass. “Drink this.”

She did.

He tried, “I think it was a gopher. Not a prairie dog.”

This did make her feel a little better, somehow. She rolled to face him. “What did you do with him?”

Ray bit his cheek. “Threw it in the ravine. I can go down and get it if you want.”

“No,” she said. She would have liked to bury the little guy properly — make a project of it — but she was certain that if Ray went down into the ravine he would never come back.

“Come here,” Ray said, and hoisted Luz, nude and fetal, onto his lap. He took each of her fingers into his mouth and sucked the starlet’s rings off. He extracted the feathered headpiece from her hair and began tangling and untangling it with his fingers, something she loved immeasurably. “It’s Saturday,” he said.

“I didn’t know.”

“We could go down to raindance tomorrow. Try to get berries.”

She sucked up some snot. “Really?”

“Hell yeah.”

They laughed. Ray said, Here, and led Luz from the bed and into the master bathroom. He held Luz’s hand as she stepped naked into the dry tub, a designer ceramic bowl in the center of the room, white as a first tooth. Ray went downstairs and returned with his jug. He moistened a towel at the jug’s mouth and washed her everywhere. When he was finished he left her in the tub. “Stay there,” he said before he closed the door. She stayed in the dark, fiddling with the starlet’s bracelet, the diamonds having found some improbable light to twinkle. When Ray finally retrieved her, he carried her over his shoulder and flopped her down on the bed and only when she slipped her bare legs between the sheets did she realize that the cases, the duvet, every linen was smooth. He had snapped the infinite sand from them.

The sun had gone down and the doors to the balcony were open; she imagined the sea breeze making its incredible way to them. Tomorrow they would eat berries. They lay together, happy and still, which was more than anyone here had a right to be. She could tell Ray was asleep when the twitches and whimpers and thrashes began, the blocking of nightmares he never remembered. She held him and watched the bloodglow pulse in the east, the last of the chaparral exploding.

Luz had gotten, even by her own generous estimation, righteously fucked up. This occurred to her as the sun of suns dripped into the Pacific and she found herself barefoot at the center of a drum circle, shaking a tambourine made from a Reebok box with broken Christmas ornaments rattling inside and shimmying what tits she had. Luz was not a dancer; she had never been a dancer. But here the rhythm was elephantine and simple as the slurping valves in the body — an egalitarian tune. She jigged and stomped her bare feet into the dry canal silt. She worried for Ray a flash, then let it go. He was probably well aware of her situation, as was his way. Probably watching her from the periphery of the circle, sipping the home-brewed saltwater mash she’d been swilling all day.

And why shouldn’t she swill? They had liberated the starlet’s cheery, grass-green Karmann-Ghia, which Ray called the Melon, and descended from their canyon to the desiccant city, to the raindance, a free-for-all of burners and gutterpunks caterwauling and cavorting in the dry canals of Venice Beach, sending up music from that concrete worm of silt and graffiti and confettied garbage weaving fourfold through the nancy bungalows. They’d set up camp in the shade of a footbridge with its white picket handrails ripped off and Ray had procured a growler of mash and a baggie of almonds and six cloves of garlic the pusher called Gilroy, though nothing had grown in Gilroy for a decade. Happy day, day of revelry and bash, for money still meant in Los Angeles, even in the chaos of the raindance, and — hot damn! — Luz Cortez had earned plenty of it, modeling under her mother’s maiden name until her agency fled to the squalid mists of New York, and she too old to be begged to follow.

So vibe on, sister. Shake shake shake. Don’t trip on the fact that even money will go meaningless eventually. Don’t go sour simmering on what that money cost you, on UV flashes scorching your eyes to temporary blindness or pay docked for time in the ER or old men pinching your thighs, your fat Chicana ass, the girlish flesh pudged at your armpits, putting their fingers or one time a Sharpie up in you. Yes, you have been to Paris and Milan and London and all the rest and cannot remember a thing about them. But don’t feed the negativity, though you were always too flabby, too short, too hairy, too old, too Mexican. Ass too flat, tits too saggy, nipples too big — like saucers, one said. Don’t start that old loop of, Take your shirt off, and, Turn around, sweetheart, and, Bend over, and, Put the worm in your mouth, babe, you know what to do. Don’t get caustic, even if you were only fourteen and didn’t know what to do, had never done it before, had never even kissed a boy. Don’t stir up the hunger the hunger the hunger. Don’t think it was all for nothing.

Don’t think. Dance.

Twirl! Twirl!

Because sweet Jesus money was still money, and wasn’t that something to celebrate? For now, enough money could get you fresh produce and meat and dairy, even if what they called cheese was Day-Glo and came in a jar, and the fish was mostly poisoned and reeking, the beef gray, the apples blighted even in what used to be apple season, pears grimy even when you paid extra for Bartletts from Amish orchards. Hard sour strawberries and blackberries filled with dust. Flaccid carrots, ashen spinach, cracked olives, bruised hundred-dollar mangos, all-pith oranges, shriveled lemons, boozy tangerines, raspberries with gassed aphids curled in their hearts, an avocado whose crumbling taupe innards once made you weep.

The rhythm went manic and Luz collapsed to the silt crust.

Woozy, she stood and careened stylishly through the party, up to the canal berm, the smooth, sloped concrete patch beneath the footbridge where she’d last seen Ray.

And there he was still, guarding their encampment, the growler of mash in one hand and the starlet’s bejeweled sandals in the other. The heel straps had been giving her trouble, Luz remembered now.

“I’m blotto,” she said, rubbing her forehead on his warm bicep.

“I know,” he said.

“And thirsty.”

Ray knelt and set the growler between his feet on the pitched concrete. He took one of Luz’s dirty feet in his hand and put a shoe on, then the other. Luz wobbled and steadied herself with his fine broad back. When he finished, Ray dug a ration cola from his backpack, the only drink anyone had plenty of. It was warm and flat and thick with syrup — donated because the formula was off, was the rumor. But it was wet and this alone was reason enough to love him.

She sat and drank and Ray stood — he did not like to sit much — and consulted his list. Ray’s tiny notebook, looted from the back of a drugstore, was the old-timey reporter’s kind with the wire spiral at the top, such that before writing in it he should have licked the tip of his yellow golf pencil, gouged to sharpness with the Leatherman he carried.

Luz snooped in Ray’s notebook whenever possible, skimming his secret poems and skate park schematics and lists. Ray was a listmaker. He did not live a day without a list; Luz had never made a list a day in her life — their shtick. His lists went:

— matches

— crackers

— L

— water

Or:

— shitting hole

— garage door

— L

— water

Or:

— candles

— alcohol

— peanuts

— L

— water

Or:

— axe

— gas

— shoes

— L

— water

Or:

— charcoal

— lighter fluid

— marshmallows for L

— water

Or:

— Sterno

— eyedrops

— calamine

— kitty litter

— L

— water

Or, often, only:

— L

— water

“Hey,” said Ray, batting her with his notebook. “I heard of a guy who has blueberries from Seattle.”

“Seattle,” she whispered, the word itself like rain. “Can I come?” She had never been on a procurement mission, as Ray called them.

“You want to?”

Luz squealed in the affirmative and finished her ration cola. Then they set off, hand in hand, Ray’s eyes as phosphorescent as the day she witnessed him birthed from the sea.

Ray had the blazing prophet eyes of John Muir, and like John Muir, war had left him nerve-shaken and lean as a crow. The ocean had restored him. The way he told it, a city of a ship bearing the emblem of the motherland deposited him in the riverless West, at San Diego. He was released — honorable discharge, had medals somewhere — but the whole way back he’d been jumpy, sleepless, barely keeping the darkness at the edges. Nothing soothed him until he heard the white noise of the breakers. So instead of going home to the heartland he liberated a surfboard from someone’s backyard and made his home in the curl. He had a mind to surf through all crises and shortages and conflicts past and present. He would make a vacuum of the coast, nothing could happen there, even the things that had happened before he was born. He was surfing the day they pronounced the Colorado dead and he was surfing the day it was dammed, a hundred years before. When some omnipotent current ferried him northward toward LA, he allowed it. He surfed as that city’s aqueducts went dry. He surfed as she built new aqueducts, wider aqueducts, deeper aqueducts, aqueducts stretching to the watersheds of Idaho, Washington, Montana, aqueducts veining the West, half a million miles of palatial half-pipe left of the hundredth meridian, its architects and objectors occasionally invoking the name of Baby Dunn. Ray surfed as concrete waterway crept up to Alaska, surfed as the Mojave and the Sonoran licked the bases of glaciers. He was surfing each time terrorists or visionaries bombed the massive unfilled aqueduct canals at Bend and Boise and Boulder and Eugene. He surfed as states sued states and as the courts shut down the ducts for good. He surfed as the Central Valley, America’s fertile crescent, went salt flat, as its farmcorps regularly drilled three thousand feet into the unyielding earth, praying for aquifer but delivered only hot brine, as Mojavs sucked up the groundwater to Texas, as a major tendril of interstate collapsed into a mile-wide sinkhole, killing everybody on it, as all of the Southwest went moonscape with sinkage, as the winds came and as Phoenix burned and as a white-hot superdune entombed Las Vegas.

Then, one day, Ray emerged from the thrashing oblivion of the Pacific at Point Dume, and there was a chicken-thin, gappy-toothed girl sitting in the sand beside a suitcase and a hatbox, crying off all her eye makeup.

Seawatery, gulping air and clutching his board to him, Ray approached her. What was the first thing he said? Luz could not now remember, but it would have been sparkling. She did recall his hands, gone pink with cold, and his pale aqua prophet’s eyes, and herself saying in response, “I haven’t seen anyone surfing in years. I forgot about surfing.”

His hope naked, Ray asked, “You surf?”

She smiled thinly and shook her head. “Can’t swim.”

“Serious? Where you from?”

“Here.”

“And you can’t swim?”

“Never learned.”

They sat quiet for a time, side by side in the sand, hypnotized by the beckoning waves.

“Where are you from?” she said, wanting to hear this wildman’s voice again.

“Indiana.”

“Hoosier.”

“That’s right.” He grinned. He had an incredibly good-looking mouth.

“Why’d you come here?”

“I was in the military.”

“Were you deployed?”

He nodded.

“What did you do?”

He shrugged and snapped a seaweed polyp between his fingers. “You’ve heard that dissertation.”

He said his name and she said hers and then they sat again in quiet. At their backs, gone coral and shimmering in the sun’s slant, was a de-sal plant classified as defunct but that in truth had never been funct. They’d heard that dissertation, too.

Luz asked, “You going to evac there, Indiana?”

“Nah.”

“Where, then?”

“Nowhere.”

“Nowhere?”

“Nowhere.”

He told her about the sea and his needing it and then, when she suggested Washington State, he said California had restored him, that he would not abandon her. And eventually he told her too about the younger sister born without a brain, only a brainstem — so much like brainstump—that she was supposed to die after a couple of weeks, but she was twenty-one now and a machine still breathed for her, which made Luz think iron lung even though that was not quite right. The wrong mote of dust could kill her, said Ray. One fucking mote. And because of this his mother was always cleaning, cleaning feverishly, cleaning day and night, cleaning with special chemicals the government sent. She didn’t want Ray around. “It’s too much for her,” he said. “Anyway they’re screening pretty heavy in Washington now, and the only skills I have I never want to use again.”

“You’ve got charm,” she said. “Charisma.”

“I think they’re maxed out on charisma.”

“You can surf.”

“You know, I put that on my application.”

“What happened with it?”

“An orca ate it, actually.”

People always claimed they were staying, but Ray was the first person Luz believed. “So what are you going to do?” she asked.

“Some people I know have a place. Even if they didn’t, Hoosiers aren’t quitters. California people are quitters. No offense. It’s just you’ve got restlessness in your blood.”

“I don’t,” she said, but he went on.

“Your people came here looking for something better. Gold, fame, citrus. Mirage. They were feckless, yeah? Schemers. That’s why no one wants them now. Mojavs.”

He was kidding, but still the word stung, here and where it hung on the signage of factories in Houston and Des Moines, hand-painted on the gates of apartment complexes in Knoxville and Beaumont, in crooked plastic letters on the marquees of Indianapolis elementary schools: MOJAVS NOT WELCOME. NO WORK FOR MOJAVS. MOJAVS KEEP OUT. A chant ringing out from the moist nation’s playgrounds: The roses are wilted / the orange trees are dead / them Mojavs got lice / all over they head.

But Ray smiled and his kind mouth once again soothed Luz. “We’re stick-it-out people,” he said, but what he really meant, she knew, was they could be Mojavs together.

Ray brushed a hank of hair from her eyes and said, “You look like I know you.” Had he seen her before? Luz said maybe and sheepishly described the decaying billboard surveying Sunset Boulevard, her in sweatshop bra and panties, eyes made up like bruises, crouched over a male model’s ass like she was about to take a bite out of it. Get those freaky teeth, the art director had not even whispered. One papery panel peeling off now, so her bare legs looked shrunken, vestigial. “The zenith of my career,” she said. “Minus a commercial for wine coolers.”

Ray said, “No, somewhere else,” then Luz kissed him.

After, there was more silence between them, but it did not feel like silence. It felt like peace.

Ray asked, “What about you? You going to evac?”

They took you by bus. Camps in Louisiana, Pennsylvania, New Jersey. No telling which you’d end up at and anyway it didn’t matter. It was temporary, they said. The best thing you could do for the cause. She knew better, but she was scheduled to go anyway. The suitcase beside her was filled with novels and wads of designer clothes, the hatbox heavy with her savings. But she hated crowds, hated every human being except this one beside her. She suddenly and fiercely did not want to get on a bus tomorrow. She wanted to fall in love instead. Frightening herself, she said, “I was.”

So Ray took her home, to the gutted Santa Monica apartment complex from which his friends staged their small resistance. They had sex on Ray’s bedroll in the laundry room. After, he said, “I need you to promise me we won’t talk about the war.”

She said, “Promise me we won’t talk about the water.”

He said, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

—

Now, dusk was coming to the dry rills of raindance. Luz followed Ray along the berm and, though it scared her, into a man-high rusty corrugated drainage culvert, where the berry man was supposed to be. Inside, a stench met them, fecal and hot. Something scraped about back in the darkness, something screeched. As the light at their backs wilted, Luz put one hand to her mouth and groped for Ray with the other. This was, she realized, probably not a good place to be a woman.

The starlet’s sandals began to slice into Luz’s heels again and she stumbled. “You okay?” Ray whispered. She nodded though she was dizzy and hot and there was a new pressure on the underside of her eyebones, and though Ray surely could not see her nodding in this semiterranean dark.

Soon, Luz’s pupils dilated wide enough to accept Ray’s silhouette ahead of her. She clung to him with one hand and traced the other along the metal wall of the pipe, flinching at its rust splinters and steadying herself as she lurched over knee-high sediment dunes and dry knolls of sewage. The culvert forked into a smaller pipe where Ray had to stoop. The sounds went human now; voices of people gathered to haggle and score ricocheted down the tube.

Fresh socks here, all-cotton socks.

Ovaltine, whole can, hep!

Luz and Ray continued, the culvert soon clogged with the crowd’s collective fetid lethargy. Wherever the pair walked, bodies blocked their path. Luz would have liked to hear some Spanish, to be reminded of her mother, but even here there was none, influx long ago turned to exodus. Ray lightly lobbed the words blueberries and Seattle into the darkness and what came back was Not me, white boy. Deeper, brother, and then, Um-hm. Careful. He nasty.

Finally Ray called blueberries and was tossed Here, son. From the darkness materialized a shirtless, ashy-skinned daddy-o, bald head glistening, tiny mouth gnawing on a black plastic stir straw. Beside him stood a Filipino with scarred hands and a backpack.

The daddy-o held a drained cola can aloft in the darkness. “King County blues. One-fifty.”

Ray took the can and examined it. He handed it to Luz. A handful of berries padded inside the aluminum. She put the can to her nose and thought she smelled the dulcet tang of them.

“Give you seventy-five,” said Ray.

The daddy-o bowed reverently to the can. “All due respect, son, these is some juicy-ass berries. Juicier than juicy pussy.” He winked at Luz. “Can’t give them up for less than a hundred.”

“Eighty then.”

“Eighty,” the daddy-o said to his partner. He sucked his teeth.

The Filipino said, “Used to be a nigger could make a living in this city.”

“That’s all I got,” said Ray, though it was not.

“All you got, hmm,” said the daddy-o. He reached out to retrieve the can from Luz. She handed it over, but instead of taking the can from her, the daddy-o torqued his long-nailed index finger through the starlet’s tennis bracelet, still strung like dewdrops around her wrist. He yanked, but the bracelet held. Luz pinched her breath in her throat.

“I doubt that,” said the daddy-o.

“Hey,” said Ray, but Luz was saying, “Take it,” her fingers panicking against the mean little clasp.

The daddy-o flung Luz’s own hand back at her. “The fuck you think I am?” To Ray he said, “Two hundred.”

Ray gave the daddy-o two bills he’d brought from the hatbox they stored in the starlet’s drained redwood hot tub, took the can of berries and pulled Luz away. Her head was swooning and her sense of direction had left her. She wanted to flee on her own but was not sure she could find her way back through the culverts. It was all she could do to follow Ray, who kept dissolving into the darkness then rematerializing to tug her along. “Christ,” he whispered, meaning Christ, be more careful, and Christ you’re stupid, and Christ, I love you and you’re all I have and therefore you have an obligation to take better care of yourself. Luz gazed ahead, needing a glimpse of the daylight they’d left, but she saw only bodies, bodies. Someone trampled the heel of her sandal and she stumbled. She needed to get away from these fucking people, but they were everywhere. Then, mercifully, Ray led her into a dark, clear space.

Her eyes slowly registered the solid perimeter of people they’d broken through. Their mouths hung open, dumb, staring at her. No, not staring at her. Luz followed their gaze and saw beside her an old woman sitting on a collapsible metal lawn chair. She wore a dress that in its day had been festooned mightily but was now threadbare and freckled with cigarette burns. She wore watersocks, and dug into each of her livery shoulders was a huge macaw, one red and one blue.

Luz stood and watched the birds, fearfully transfixed. The circle of bodies pressed in closer. The red macaw pinched a nut or a stone in its beak, working at it with its horrid, digit-like black tongue. It twitched its head. It blinked its tiny malarial eye.

Suddenly Luz was breathing everyone else’s foul, expelled air and Ray was angry and gone and there was only so much air down here and everyone was sucking it up and where was he? Had he not heard of girls carried up out of the canal into one of the vacant houses whose dry private docks jutted overhead, homes once worth three and four and five million and now, every one of them, humid with human fluids? Had he not been with her the night she’d seen a woman stumble out of one of the houses, used and bewildered, and start to make her way back down to the canal and the music, only to be dragged back up again?

Luz stepped back from the birds and collided with a sickle-thin teenager. He wore a white T-shirt with some meanness written on the front in marker, and sagging holes where the sleeves should have been. Through these holes flashed his tattooed cage of a chest. There was a long tear up one leg of his jeans and along it dozens of safety pins arranged like staples in flesh. He held a rope, and at the end of it was a short-haired, straw-colored dog, wheezing. The boy laid his rough hand on the bare skin between Luz’s shoulder blades. He rubbed.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he said. From his mouth escaped the scent of rot.

Something leaden and malignant seized Luz’s heartmuscle. She wrenched away. “I can’t breathe,” she said, barely.

Ray turned. “What?”

“I can’t breathe.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m dying.”

He put his hand on the back of her neck.

“I can’t breathe,” she said. “I fucking can’t breathe.”

Ray didn’t laugh at this, though it was laughable. Luz knew it was even now, except the knowledge was buried somewhere in her beneath bird tongue and daddy-o and sweetheart asphyxiation.

“You’re okay,” he said. “Listen.”

She gripped his shirt in her hands and pulled. “I can’t breathe, Ray.”

“You’re all right,” he said. “Tell me.”

One of the birds went wrat, impossibly loud, and Luz flinched. Wrat again and she began to claw at Ray’s midsection. People were looking at them now, some laughing, and she had designs to open her boyfriend up and hide inside him.

Ray took Luz’s two scrambling hands in one of his like a bouquet and looked her in the eye. “You’re okay,” he said again. “Tell me.”

“I’m okay,” she said, though she was also dying.

“Tell me again.”

She looked at him; she breathed. “I’m okay.”

“We’re walking,” said Ray, taking her by the shoulders.

They walked and breathed and walked and breathed and soon a dim disk of light floated ahead of them. Ray led her to it, miraculously, Luz saying, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.

Their blanket — a duvet meant for guests of the starlet — was still under the footbridge when they got back, another miracle. Ray sat Luz down. He passed her his ration jug. She refused it and he passed her hers.

He watched her as she drank.

“Thank you,” she said after some time.

“Do you want to go home?” he asked. He wanted to see the bonfire, she knew. He said, “It’s fine if you do.”

What she wanted was a few Ativan and a bottle of red wine, but those days were over. It was cooler in the canal and the air was freshish, or at least it moved. The long shadows of the mansions stretched to shade them and the blanket had not been taken and there was Ray, trying. She told herself to allow these to bring her some comfort.

“No,” she said. “Let’s stay.” She sat on the blanket and breathed. Eventually, Ray asked whether she wanted to go back to the drum circle.

“Can we just sit here awhile?” she said.

“Sure.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Ray said, which was what he always said. He motioned for her to lie back and rest her head in his lap. She did. She fell asleep and dreamt nothing.

—

Luz woke needing to pee. It was nearly dark but fires were glowing along the spine of the canal, the bonfire down the row throbbing brightest of all. Ray had taken his shoes off and was lying on his back. Luz sat still, studying him in the smoky light: his willowy hands, his steady chest, the tuft of black hair in the divot of his collarbone, barely visible above the neck of his T-shirt. His flat, slightly splayed feet. Everything about him suggested permanence. She rose and kissed him on the head. “I have to pee.”

Ray started to stand.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m okay.”

Luz made her way up the wall of the canal. The trench beyond was dark and balmy with stink, but she was feeling much better. She straddled the trench, lifted her dress, urinated, shook her ass some then stood up. Yes, she was feeling better. The sun had gone down and the canals were cooling off, the nap had dissolved the throb in her head, as a good nap will. She was okay. She would have some more water, eat something. There were blueberries in Ray’s backpack and mash in the growler. She was all right. They would go back down to the drum circle. They would dance. They would bonfire. She would not ruin everything after all.

Descending the smooth dusty pitch of the canal, she looked down at the bonfire and then beyond it, where someone had set off a bottle rocket. She saw the little puff of smoke and heard the snap. Just then — at exactly the instant the snap reached her, so that the moment was ever-seared into her memory as a tiny explosion — something slammed into her knees. She looked down to see a shivering, towheaded child wrapped around her legs.

Luz could not remember the last time she’d seen a little person. The child was maybe two years old. A girl, Luz somehow knew, though she wore only a shoddy cloth diaper, its seat dark with soil. She looked up at Luz with eyes like gray-blue nickels, sunk into skeletal sockets. Her skin was translucent, larval, and Luz had the sense that if she checked the girl’s belly she would be able to discern the shadows of organs inside.

“Hi there,” Luz said.

The child stared unblinking with her coin eyes.

“Are you lost?” asked Luz. “Where’s your mommy?” The girl’s forehead bulged subtly above the brow and she pressed it now into Luz’s crotch. Luz, embarrassed, tried to pry the girl from her legs. But the child clutched tighter and let loose a high, sorrowful moan. Luz went weak with pity.

“Shh,” she said. “You’re okay.” Luz patted her back then, unthinkingly, put her fingers in the child’s whiteblond hair, tufted like meringue at the nape.

Luz managed to separate from the girl long enough to kneel. The girl squirmed to reestablish herself in Luz’s lap, hinged her bony arms around Luz’s neck, and sobbed. Luz held her, her dress pulled taut where her knees pressed to silt. She expected someone to come for the girl, but no one did. No one was paying any attention to them.

Soon, the girl stopped crying. She regarded Luz a moment, curious, then reached one hand up and laid it plainly on Luz’s face, partially covering her right eye. The small hand was moist with snot or saliva, slick as a wet root.

“Where’s your mommy and daddy?” Luz said again.

The girl ignored the question if she understood it. She rotated her hand so it lay diagonally across Luz’s brow. The child pinched her mouth in concentration. She pressed, then positioned her other hand at Luz’s jaw and pressed again, as though getting some information from the sensation. Luz felt uncannily at ease. The raindance had slipped away and left the two of them alone in the smoky twilight, only the fires pulsing lure-like in the distance. Luz smiled, and the child smiled too, and when she did Luz felt an unbearable welling of affection, both for the girl and from her.

Then, with her hands still at Luz’s face, the girl said, “Piz kin tim eekret?”

“Tim eekret?” Luz tried.

The child squenched her face in frustration. “Piz kin tell you secret?” she repeated.

“Oh,” said Luz. “Okay.”

The girl stretched to Luz’s ear. Luz strained to make out what she was saying until she realized that the child was not saying anything, only replicating the feathery sounds of whispers. Spuh, spuh, spuh, spuhst.

When she finished, the girl leaned back and said gravely, “Don’t tell, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t.”

Just then a figure strode through the dusk and toward them. It was Ray, looking purely mystified at Luz where she knelt on the ground, whispering with a child. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“She’s lost,” said Luz.

“Did you ask around?”

“It just happened.”

Another figure drew near them. Caved and tattooed torso, the chain of safety pins along his torn jeans. As he came closer Luz recognized the teenager who had touched her in the sewer. Several heavy chains drooped between his back pocket and a belt loop, swaying as he approached. The jagged black marker on his shirt read I knew I was a nut when the squirrels started staring. He did not seem to recognize Luz. His eyes were on the girl.

“Get over here,” the Nut said to the child. He gestured down the berm, and Luz became aware of a scattering of rangy, dull-eyed young men camped out on the canal bottom, shirtless and unwashed. They cradled mash growlers and other incovert alcohols; one gripped a filthy glass water bong. The straw-colored dog scavenged among them, the rope still tied around its neck but trailing now behind him. (Baby Dunn had always wanted a dog, but her father had not allowed it.) Among the men were two girls, teenagers. The first straddled a man whose age was undoubtedly a multiple of her own. His one hand pinched a filterless cigarette while the other grazed beneath the girl’s tank top. His thick arm pulled her top up and the knuckles of the girl’s spine rose as she bent to take the man’s tongue into her mouth. The second girl was heavy, with rounded shoulders, large breasts drooping into a bikini top and a doughy midsection spilling from tight jean shorts. She watched Luz through hair cespitose and greenish from ink dye, not with anger or concern, not with anything except perhaps a dullness that left her mouth slightly open. Under this dead gaze Luz realized she was still holding the child.

Luz pointed to the group. “Is that your mommy?”

The child shook her head. No.

The Nut said, “Her mommy’s not here.” The tattoo on his bicep was a smeary green cross, blurred lines and imperfect proportions. The cross came closer now as the Nut bent to take the child by the arm. The baby — as Luz had come to think of her, though she was not a baby — scrambled into Luz’s lap and flung her arms around Luz’s neck. Luz looked up at the Nut. She did not want him to take the baby, but he would, of course.

Ray laid his hand on Luz’s shoulder, protecting her from the Nut or from herself. Luz rose, forcing the child to slide from her lap. “Time to go,” Luz told her.

“No, no, no!” the girl cried.

The Nut took the child’s arm roughly and the girl screamed, “Okay!” She wrenched her tiny arm from him. “But please can I tell her a secret?”

The Nut sighed, then nodded, and Luz bent down again, letting the child up to her ear. Ray looked on. Again the girl made whispering sounds but said no actual words. When she was finished she looked at Luz and said, “Tell everyone, okay?”

Luz said, “Okay, I’ll tell everyone.”

“Then come back to me.”

Luz glanced up at Ray. “I can’t come back to you,” she said to the girl. “I have to go.”

“Okay, but please can I tell you a secret?” The Nut exhaled loudly but Luz leaned down to the girl again. The child made no breathy sounds this time, but spoke clearly: “Please may I have a glass of water?”

Luz stood and in the tone adults use to speak through children she said, “I’m sure your friends can get you a glass of water.”

The Nut once again took the girl by the arm. Before he left he told Luz plainly, “We don’t have any water.”

Luz watched him pull the baby back to the group, where he sat her down between the doughy teenage girl and the man with the bong. He said something sharp to the child, but Luz could not tell what.

Ray took Luz’s hand. “Let’s go,” he said, though his face looked as sick as hers must have. They walked away from the group, back toward their blanket. Luz looked back but already the child was out of sight, blocked by a stand of partakers. They walked on.

It was Ray who spoke first. “That didn’t seem right.”

Luz stopped. “Let’s go back,” she said.

“And do what?”

“Watch her. Make sure she’s okay.”

“Why?”

“What if those weren’t her people?”

“What do you mean?”

She took a short breath, knowing how the next part would sound. “I have a feeling.”

Ray frowned and swept a strand of hair from her eyes. “Babygirl—”

“I’m not drunk anymore,” she said, though she was not sure if that was true.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Let’s go back, just to see if everything looks okay.” Ray ran his hand up and down her bare arm, as if she were cold. She wasn’t cold but she was trembling. “Please,” she said.

Ray looked back toward where they had left the child. “All right.”

They walked a wide loop into and out of the canal and circled back on the other side of the footbridge. They stopped where they could spy down on the area where Luz first found the girl. The canal had gone from gleaming gray and bleach-white to fireglow and a misty blue-black. They turned to face each other, pretending to talk the happy talk of young people in love.

Luz stood with her back to the canal so that Ray could look over her shoulder. “Do you see them?” she whispered.

Ray nodded. “There.”

“What are they doing?”

“The same thing. Sitting.”

“Do you see her?”

“No.”

Luz knew instantly that something unspeakable had happened to the baby, and that it was her fault. She resisted the rising urge to turn around.

Ray’s eyes raked the chaos of the canal beyond. “Wait,” he said. “There she is.”

“What’s she doing?”

“She’s playing. Running around.”

Luz could not stop herself from turning now. She spotted the child stepping softly in the hot silt, alone. Beyond her, the Nut and the fleshy girl who was not her mother and all the rest were back in their circle, taking rips from the bong, playing roughly with the dog. The thin girl was kissing a different man.

Luz and Ray watched the child — this strange, coin-eyed, translucent-skinned child. She approached a young woman with a ragged Mohawk who sat cross-legged on the concrete slope. The woman wore a crinkly purple skirt and a canvas backpack. She was topless, her breasts painted as two drooping purple daisies, her nipples the polleny yellow cores. The child hopped forward now and waved her hand emphatically in the young woman’s face.

“See,” said Ray, “she does that. Goes up to people.”

The topless woman said something and the child solemnly rose up to touch the woman’s Mohawk. She pancaked the inky flattened wall of hair between her two hands. The woman laughed, perhaps uneasily. Ray put his hand between Luz’s shoulder blades, where the Nut had first touched her. “She’s just a weird kid,” he said.

The child brought her hands to the woman’s face and rubbed it all over, as she had done to Luz, and Luz was betrayed, somehow. “You’re right,” she said.

Ray stepped toward the bonfire, urging Luz in that direction with his large hand. But after a few yards Luz shook him off. “You saw the way she grabbed me,” she said. “She was afraid.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I have a feeling. I don’t want to ignore it.”

“What do you want to do?” he asked, kindly. He was handling her. He thought she was drunk and sliding toward hysteria, though he knew better than to put it that way. They had been here before, the culvert only the most recent episode. An impromptu party at the complex where she’d sat on the waxed lip of the dry pool, tight, smoking and arguing about the drought with some of Ray’s nomad friends. They were shouting really, and Luz was shouting loudest. It was late and someone asked them to keep it down. Someone else asked them to take it somewhere else. Luz refused. Everyone there pretended to be so bohemian and radical but really they were all worried about offending everyone else and she was fucking sick of it. She informed the others that they would not be keeping it down, that they would not be going anywhere, that there were entire towns dying of arsenic poisoning and if they thought they were so hard-core, so of the earth, maybe they should forego their trips to the ration truck parked on Pico. She called her beleaguered audience, among other things, cunts and fascists and bores. One weary comrade went back to where Ray was camped, and by the sonic magic of courtyard echoes, Luz had heard her asking Ray to intervene. “She listens to you,” she’d said.

Ray’s response: “If you want Luz to do something, you have to make her think it’s her idea.”

Another time — things with the friends souring, just before they’d left for the canyon — Luz had approached the gate after a ration trip and someone said, “Luz is back. Don’t make any sudden movements.”

“Can we move our stuff over here?” Luz asked now.

“What?”

“They don’t have water, Ray? What does that mean?”

“I’d just like to know what you hope to gain here. Your goal.”

“They’re taking her rations.”

“You don’t know that.”

“That’s why I want to watch.”

Ray yielded. “If it will make you feel better.”

They fetched their things and rearranged them on the other side of the footbridge, where they could see the girl and her people. Luz could not take her eyes from the child flitting through raindance, darting around fires and garbage heaps, collecting sticks and stalks of shimmering trash into a bushel in her hand. She approached more strangers, farther and farther from her people, sometimes latching onto them as she had to Luz. She was a weird kid. She just went up to people. Yes, but it was also true that some evil was going down here and Luz knew she was the only one who could see it. For the first time in her life, she was absolutely essential. “I am acutely engorged with purpose,” she whispered. Ray told her to have some more water.

The Nut did not come after the child again. Another man with another dog had joined them and the group was now captivated by the two dogs, who often erupted in snarls. Without anyone’s noticing, the child ventured farther and farther. Luz eavesdropped on the group shamelessly and caught some of their words—whore, ream, fuck rag, cum dumpster—words Luz herself used, and whose explicitness had always delighted her, but which seemed now repugnant and unequivocally inappropriate, a word she never used.

“Did you hear that?” Luz asked after one of these affronting words reached them. But Ray was making a show of eating almonds. He was, he said, through spying on people.

Luz was not through. Not hardly. She was spellbound by the group’s filth and their relentless youth and their drug-depleted gazes — indeed, the more she watched them the more they embodied stories she’d heard of vile things happening in the Valley. Traffickers charged quadruple for children, and many hosts refused to take them, so toddlers were left to cook in cars, older kids locked in the apartments parents fled. Or the children became the currency. These tales, along with the group’s obvious and unforgivable neglect of the child, confirmed for Luz their malevolence.

Then, the child spotted Luz once more. She smiled a crooked smile, but it wasn’t until she came toward Luz, at an all-out tottersome run, that Luz recognized how she ached to hold the girl again. The baby bowled into Luz and toppled into her lap.

“Hi,” said Luz.

The girl said nothing, only stared up at Luz. With dusk her chameleon eyes had gone a milky heather, her hair dull pewter. She smelled strongly of urine.

“Are you thirsty?” asked Luz.

The child opened and closed her mouth like a carp.

“Want some water?” Luz tried, dangling her jug over the girl.

The child squealed and lunged for the water. Luz unscrewed the cap and the baby drank heartily and with some difficulty, spilling down her bare chest and letting out big wet gasps between gulps. Ray watched, trying and failing to hide his alarm at her intense thirst. Luz fetched the can of blueberries from the backpack.

“You hungry?” she said. Ray gave Luz a look and Luz said, “What?” He looked over to the Nut and the others. Luz looked, too. The Nut saw them. Luz wilted, expecting him to retrieve the girl again. Instead, he waved. It was not a friendly wave, not to give Luz permission to hold the girl or to feed her, but an ambivalent flash of the hand to signal that he didn’t give a damn what she did.

So Luz shook some blueberries out of the can and offered one to the girl. She longed for the child to take it between her corpulent thumb and index finger, but instead she jabbered something and Luz stared at her, baffled.

The girl slapped impatiently at the blanket and jabbered again.

“‘What is it?’” said Ray. “She’s saying, ‘What is it?’”

“What is it?” the girl said again.

“Blueberry,” said Luz.

The baby did not know blueberry.

“Here.” Luz took the fruit and split it in half with her thumbnail. The child looked on in amazement. Luz offered the vein-colored, butterflied meat of the blueberry to the girl and she took it into her small mouth. Immediately the child grimaced, squenched her face up in revulsion and opened her mouth. Luz cupped her hand beneath the child’s chin and the girl let the spitty fruit drop out. Luz tried a berry and found it a tasteless mucus. “Sorry,” she said. Ray chuckled a little and the girl told him to shut up. Ray balked. “Shut up!” the baby said once more, gleefully. Luz said, “Be kind,” her own mother’s line.

“What’s your name?” Ray asked.

The baby regarded Ray suspiciously and he asked her again. Then the girl made a sound like Ig.

“Ig?” asked Ray.

The girl chugged amusedly, “Ig, Ig, Ig,” like some small engine.

“Ig,” said Ray, laughing, and the girl laughed too. She dismounted from Luz’s lap and began to roll around on the concrete, saying, “Ig, Ig, Ig, Ig,” her face still flecked with black bits of blueberry skin. Ray and Luz laughed and the girl, little showboat dynamo, little ham, rolled more furiously, going, “Ig, Ig, Ig, Ig.” They were having a good time, the three of them.

Then, sudden as a ghost, the child stopped rolling and popped up and bounded back to her wretched encampment. Luz felt a great reservoir of joy drain from her.

Ray watched her go, too, saying finally, “She’s sweet.”

“I don’t like those… people,” said Luz.

“What’s wrong with them?”

Luz scowled at her Ray. “They’re high—”

“Everyone here is high. They’re letting loose.”

Luz knew he didn’t believe this. “Something’s wrong with them.”

“You’re paranoid.”

“Don’t do that to me. Having a drink doesn’t make me an idiot. I know what I feel.”

“Stop,” he breathed.

“Look at them. Please.”

Ray turned, finally. They watched the girl skipping and hopping irregularly between her people. “Keep looking,” Luz whispered, urgent with the fear that Ray would not see what she saw, burdened with the weight of his waiting. This was the last chance, she knew, the last he’d humor her this evening.

The girl got on all fours and crawled to the new dog, pressing her plank face dangerously close to the mutt’s. Ray was unfazed.

Then the child lost interest in the dog and crawled along the silt crust to the young man who had been serving as steward of the water bong. He sat cross-legged in the dirt. The girl put her head in his lap. Ray shifted and Luz felt his attention fading.

Just then, the Mojav brought his hand down on the back of the child’s head, not a blow but a grip. Palming her head, he pumped the baby’s face into his groin twice, three times. His friends chuckled and he did it again. This time he hoisted his free hand into the air, a bull rider’s pose. The group howled raucously as he mashed the baby’s whiteblond head into and out of his crotch, then released her.

Ray recoiled. “Jesus.”

The gesture sickened Luz too, because it was sickening, but also because it was so wholly validating that she felt she had somehow asked for it, willed it into being. She said, “See?”

“We should get someone.”

“There’s no one.”

“Red Cross.”

“They won’t come down here. Even if they did. They’ll talk to them and they’ll tell them some story and Red Cross will leave and they”—she flung her hand toward the wretched gang—“will leave.” Her hand hung in the air, trembling as if the last barrier of resistance against the force threatening to pull this child back into the endless asphalt maze of the Valley. “They’ll take her away and we’ll never see her again.”

Ray began to speak. “Listen,” he might have said, but beyond Luz the Nut came toward them. The little girl followed, stumbling to keep up.

The Nut stopped at the edge of their blanket and pushed the girl in front of him. He spoke without looking at them, chewing the raw skin around his thumbnail. “Could you guys watch her a sec?” He gestured back toward his group. “We have to do something.”

Ray began again to speak. Luz feared what was coming: Where are you going? How long will you be gone? Ray always asked the questions that needed to be asked and suddenly, fleetingly, she found this quality of his unbearable.

“Sure,” she answered before he could. “No problem.” Luz extended her arms to the girl. The child regarded the pose a moment, then leapfrogged instead onto Ray’s outstretched legs. Ray released a sitcom groan, which delighted the girl and sent her up and leaping again.

And so another nonsense game was in full swing as the Nut and his jaundiced entourage receded, bong, dogs and all, along the corridor, disappearing into the swell of the raindance.

Ray chided Luz—“‘Sure! No problem!’ You were so creepy.”—but he entertained the child with unchecked joy. The three of them played at piling little anthills of sand in one another’s hands and then played at blowing them into oblivion. They played at Ray lying still then popping his eyes open and saying boog and the girl squealing and hiding behind Luz. They played at arranging all Luz’s hair to cover her face like a curtain. The girl was a fiendish collector and loved nothing more than scouting the canal for like things and depositing them with the adults. Thus Ray’s pockets filled with pebbles and dead sticks, while Luz’s backpack became a repository for dust-chalked plastic bags and small shining sails of garbage. During her depositing the baby would sometimes do her dynamo chant: Ig, Ig, Ig, Ig, Ig. And when the child set off, Luz and Ray chugged it to each other, “Ig, Ig, Ig, Ig,” laughing in their old easy way.

An hour passed, then another, all the while no sign of the Nut or anyone from his group. Ray went responsible periodically, looking around and asking, “Where are these people?”

Beneath the silliness, they noticed an eerie adult quality about the girl. She touched. She moaned to herself. Her speech lurched forward and back, progressions and regressions. Sometimes she spoke like a miniature adult, skeptical and weary. Don’t tell anyone, okay? Other times it was only alien syllables, sending her into a rage at her own incomprehensibility. But she swung easily from tantrum to slapstick to affection, her bulbed brow leading the way. Her torso was taut as a balloon, some pressure inside, and her pale arms dangled from it like vestiges when she ran. Depositing a specimen she often paused to lay her hands on Luz or Ray. She pinched as often as she pet, though her unwashed hands did seem to favor stroking Luz’s throat, a disquieting stroke described by nothing so truly as the word sensual.

“What is that?” Luz said once, after the child had tromped off for another micro-expedition. “The way she feels everything.”

Ray nodded. “Like she’s seeing with her hands.”

Night was full-on, though it was a night obliterated by bonfire now thoroughly raging, letting off a chemical pungency where someone had heaved in a sofa. Soon the girl — whom they had started to call Ig, affectionately — tired of her collecting and began to whine and mash her fists into her eyes. Luz made a pillow of Ray’s hoodie and coaxed the girl into lying down, then took up a corner of the duvet and burritoed it over Ig’s soft body. There, the child fell into a fluttering sleep. In the distance a long, manic drum riff crescendoed, sending up trills from the partiers. Ig had been with them for hours now.

“We should have asked where they were going,” Ray said.

Luz swaddled the duvet over the sleeping girl more snugly, wishing for something more substantial to wrap around her, wishing she could free her from the putrid diaper. She laid her hand on the bundle of Ig and rubbed softly.

“Maybe they’re not coming back.” She said it nonchalantly — almost a joke — but she knew it was true. She had known it since they left.

Ray didn’t laugh. He looked at the sleeping girl, unable or unwilling to hide his pity. “Who leaves their kid with strangers?”

“Maybe she’s not their kid.”

Ray was quiet, though Luz could tell he had plenty to say. He was doing the dutiful stoic bit that so provoked her. Around them, people scrambled to set up camp where they could get a good view of the bonfire. Luz felt herself pulled taut with the urgency that had been distending in her since the girl plowed into her life. She was close to bursting, and frantic to make Ray feel that bursting, too. She was desperate to make him desperate.

“How could someone do that?” she said.

“What?” said Ray.

“Hurt a little one.”

He frowned down at Ig, pushed Luz’s hair back behind her shoulder. He knew about the photographers, was maybe thinking of them now. “I don’t know.”

“Ray,” she said, startled to find herself near tears. “We’re going to have little ones and they’re going to be hurt.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Neither would you. But someone will.”

“Babygirl, don’t get like this.”

“There’s too much hurt in the world to be avoided. More than enough for everyone.”

“You just do your best.”

She leaned into him and gripped the inner meat of his thigh. “Then let’s do it.”

He inhaled and stiffened. “Do what?”

“Our best.”

Ray looked at her, miniature bonfires winking in his eyes.

“It’s been hours,” said Luz. “Maybe they wanted us to have her.”

“You didn’t even think those were her people.”

“They abandoned her, Ray.”

“You sound like a crazy person,” he whispered.

“Don’t say that.”

“You do. You sound crazy.”

“I’m not,” she said. Was that true? She was beyond determining her own fitness and had been for some time. And yet, here she felt solid — righteous. She peered fiercely into Ray’s prophet eyes aflame. It had been such a long time since she believed in anything. “I cannot accept that there is nothing we can do. I won’t.”

An ebullient shriek went up from the crowd. The drums pounded on and the bonfire swelled with mattresses and furniture and driftwood. There was a flare in the distance, and an orb of yellow-white gaslight bloomed overhead. Then another flare, another fireball, another ripple of pandemonium traveling through the canal. Ray said nothing.

Someone detonated a round of mortars, a purely sonic cluster of explosions that left pale smoke blossoms in the starless night and woke Ig. She startled in her bundle, then sprang up, wailing. Luz tried to take hold of her but the girl scrambled away, afraid. She stood on the smooth and cracked concrete infrastructure, shuddering, her soiled diaper drooping between her bowed legs. More explosions came and Luz knew as she had known anything that the child was on the verge of tearing off into the darkness, through the dry canals to the channel that was once the Los Angeles River, streaking all the way to the black and infinite and worthless sea.

Suddenly, in one purposeful and athletic motion, Ray was off the blanket. He strode to the girl and scooped her into his arms. She wailed still but he pressed her to him and held her. Luz went to them. She tucked the hoodie around Ig. Ray paced, jouncing the child lovingly and murmuring into her pale head. Eventually she calmed, slackened, and fell back to sleep.

Luz watched. At the cacophonic arsenal of the bonfire’s climax she pressed her hands over the child’s small ears. It was useless, she knew, but Ray gave her one of his endlessly warm, instantly soothing smiles and she kept them there.

The bonfire caved in on itself and the drummers followed. Soon, another ineffectual raindance would disperse up and out of the canal. Luz folded their blanket, packed the growler, berries, and water bottles in the backpack and donned it. Ray watched, Ig still in his arms, her glowing head draped over his shoulder. They stood looking at each other. Ray’s eyes were reddish and bleary now and seeing them made Luz’s hurt, too. She wanted to go home. She had the sense that they were standing on the edge of something and she wanted to step off, together. But Ray did not move.

Then, his eyes widened.

Luz turned, looking for what Ray saw instead of her. Below, across the dark dry canal, a serpentine figure moved easily through the churning crowd. He came toward them, the Nut.

Luz did not breathe.

The berm was dense with people. It was possible the Nut had not seen them. They could flee. She wanted to say all this and more but before she could manage a word Ray leaned into her. He released two firm syllables, the finest she had ever heard: “Go. Now.”

She followed Ray swiftly, wordlessly, away from the Nut, through the throngs, up and over the berm. On the lip of the canal, Luz looked back, the bonfire a dying star behind them, the Nut coming at them, maybe.

“Here,” said Ray, leading her through a gouged redwood gate dangling from its post by one hinge. They weaved through the sacked backyards of the abandoned craftsmen, past their shredded Burmese hammocks, drained koi ponds, groves of decorative bamboo gone to husks. Upended kilns, mosaics of pottery shards, slashed screens, slivers of smashed Turkish lamps lynched from what had once been a lemon tree, hummingbird feeders still half-filled with pink nectar, wire skeletons of dissolved paper lanterns, a splintering croquet mallet, terra-cotta pavers, disintegrating block walls, gutted cushions, a burnt-out miniature pagoda, a canoe filled with excrement and ancient newspaper. All the while Luz watched the baby’s glowing haloed head where it bounced on Ray’s shoulder, nodding yes. It led her to the starlet’s car, to Ray, and together he and she fled to their canyon, with their Ig.

Luz woke at daylight on the living room floor with her head split in two. Her aching brain like some dim-witted oracle slogged through the night before: the affectionate half sleep, she and Ray with arms gently tangled, rolling back together when they parted, each always reaching out for the other. Ray twitching. Luz holding him, uncoiling his clenched fists. Ray at some hourless hour, pressing gently into her from behind. Her encouraging him drowsily, tilting her pelvis back so he could get at her. Him urging himself inside and riding her silently, her face pressed to the rug. Him coming quickly, rolling her over and stroking her clit for a bit, then her taking over. Ray with one big hand around her throat, his index finger curled up and into her mouth, puckered with moisture and rind-tasting. Her diddling madly, coming, and falling back to sleep.

The raindance only a zany, phantasmagoric dream, except Ray rolled on top of her now, kissed her deeply with mash on his breath, and above them, on the starlet’s space-age couch, the child began to cry.

They stared at each other, at what they’d done.

The child went on crying, a tight sound leaking from her. Luz dressed quickly in one of the starlet’s robes, and as she did, Ig climbed down from the couch butt-first. Luz had untied the child’s sagging dirty diaper and lay her on the couch the night before, she remembered now. They looked at each other for a while, the three of them. Luz said, “We should wash her.”

Ray said, “We should feed her.” He pulled his pants on and went to the kitchen. Ig stood nude in the sunlight flooding through the wall of glass. She regarded Luz a moment, opened her mouth slightly in concentration, and loosed a stream of gold-brown urine on the starlet’s birchply floor.

Luz said, Shit, oh shit.

Ray ran in, holding a box of graham crackers. “What — oh. She needs a diaper.”

“I know that.” Luz ran upstairs and came back with a maxi pad and a psychedelic Hermès scarf. Ray was mopping up the pee with a monogrammed beach towel and Ig was crawling along the stone ledge in front of the fireplace, wagging her bare bottom.

“Come here,” Luz said, but Ig screeched, wanting to finish her journey along the ledge and back. Luz waited, then took Ig squirming and flailing and laid her on the ottoman. “Can you hold her?” she asked, and Ray did. “Hey, hey,” he said, trying to distract the baby with weird faces and gestures, none of which Luz had ever seen before. Finally and with considerable trouble, Luz cinched the scarf through Ig’s spindly bow legs. “Just for now,” she said to Ray, whom she could feel watching her.

Ray released Ig and she ran, stumbled, and nearly put her head through a glass end table. She lay where she fell and howled tremendously. Luz rushed to her and gathered her up into her lap. Ray handed over the box of graham crackers and Luz broke one into quarters and tried to soothe Ig with a piece.

“Can she eat those?” Ray asked.

Luz shrugged. “She has teeth.”

Ig went on wailing, her flat face tomatoed and shiny with tears. Luz waved the cracker but the baby went on screaming bloody murder, as Luz’s mother would have said. And indeed it seemed if Ig did not stop soon she would kill herself, or them. The sound was sharp-edged as a siren and sliced into the softest, still-sleeping or still-drunk parts of Luz’s brain. Ray was doing a freaked-out little dance, hopping fretfully from one foot to the other. Luz wished he would stop. She waved the graham crackers helplessly. Then Ig stopped crying, took a cracker in each hand, and stuffed one into her small, saliva-webbed maw.

She ate another and another. Each time a cracker disappeared into her mouth she would wail for another to replace it, so she was always managing three, two in her fists and one disintegrating in her mouth. Luz waved Ray to the kitchen for more and he came back with an unopened box. He set it on the couch beside Luz. “Something to drink,” she said.

Ray came back with a ration cola and Luz looked up at him. “All we have,” he said. They’d drunk yesterday’s water yesterday. Luz helped the baby with the cola and watched as the syrup mixed with the crackers to make a mealy puck in Ig’s open mouth.

Then Ig wanted to go outside and so they took her into the backyard. On the deck Ray kicked away the spiny somethings as Ig transferred both crackers to one hand and took Luz’s index finger into her other chubby nautilus fist. Ig led them to the chaise, its canvas cushions already baking, and said, “What is?”

Ray said, “Chair.”

He said, “Pool.”

He said, “Fountain.”

“Frogs.”

“Trellis.”

“Hot tub.”

“Fur coat.”

“Half-pipe.”

“Rocks.”

“Rocks.”

“Rocks.”

“Rocks.”

They were in the rock garden — though there was not now much to distinguish the rock garden from the garden garden, except the rock garden had been arranged according to some flimsy interpretation of the word Zen—when Ig started tugging at the scarf. Luz untied a knot to adjust it and a little mustard turd rolled out. She picked up the baby and rushed over to the corner of the yard, to the shitting hole, and held her over it. Ig dropped her crackers and began to cry. Luz said, “I know,” and Ig squirmed and flailed in the air as saffrony pellets of poop dropped from her, some of the poops landing on Luz’s bare feet. Luz tried to shake them off but one had established itself between her biggest and second biggest toes.

“Jeez. What did she eat?” said Ray.

Luz wiped Ig’s rump with the maxi pad, wiped her own toes with it, then let the pad and the Hermès flap down into the shitting hole. “How would I know?”

Ray looked down the hole as if regretting the ignoble burial of the beshitted scarf. “Should we keep those?”

“She has a million of them.”

—

Ray dragged the couches and the mod low-slung armchairs from the library and the foyer and the drawing room and with them built a baby corral in the living room. He cleared out all the ouchies, as he called them, and put duct tape over the outlets though they had no juice. He hoisted the glass end tables onto his shoulders, carried them out front and chucked them down into the ravine. For toys Luz unplugged an antique rotary phone from the library and placed it in the baby corral. She gathered up the starlet’s collection of glazy babushka dolls, Guatemalan worry people and cottonwood kachinas from a guest room and, though Ray asked if letting a child play with a kachina wasn’t to invite a wicked hex, she put those in the corral, too, along with a taxidermied desert tortoise, the thickly lacquered and glass-eyeballed head of which Ig promptly began to gnaw.

From then on out it was The Ig Show, an onslaught of enslaving cutenesses. Ig seemed to need a dress, so Luz outfitted her in one of the starlet’s French silk camisoles cinched up on the side with a scrunchie. Ig was a cracker junkie, so Ray emptied the pantry to find her favorite. Ig took everything into her mouth, so Luz cinched dry ration rice into a pocket of gauze and made what Ig instantly called a nini, for her to suck. Ig was savage for walks, so Ray made her shoes out of packing tape and corkboard prized from the walls of the library and Luz let herself be pulled endlessly round the starlet’s backyard, shading the baby with a cherry-blossomed paper parasol, big bloom of gauze sprouting from Ig’s face.

Together Luz and Ray deciphered her tells: fists mashed into eye sockets, walking bowlegged and tugging on her silk diaper, a carp-like opening and closing of the mouth, the bulging of her coin eyes.

They cataloged her tastes. Likes: crackers, rocks, ration cola, questions, her new shoes, the ding the antique phone made when she bashed it with the earpiece, opening and closing the sliding doors, the tool belt, the burbling sounds Ray made for her benefit, mounting and dismounting things, i.e. the stairs, the fireplace ledge, the space-age sofa.

Dislikes: the shitting hole, being changed, the empty pool, glass, the fur coat going crusty in the backyard, certain textures (polyester, chintz, velvet, shag), certain sounds (the hand pump squeaking, heavy footsteps on the floating staircase, Luz humming), the sun, the mountain.

Ig could be impossibly silly, her clucking laugh like a seizure, a little worrisome. A spaz, Ray called her with love. Little pill. She was moody, became pensive or enraged without warning. She went berserk at the sight of a plate of saltwater noodles Ray fixed her for lunch, sending up painful-sounding screeches. If they reached for an empty cola can before she had decided she was through with it, she let loose an autistic, unsettling moan, which they made every effort not to hear. After the first day, only Ray could change her, for Ig bit Luz whenever she tried.

The child let loose her meanest mean streak on her toys. She scolded them in her private, wrathful language. She hit them, despite both Luz and Ray begging her not to. She chucked the worry people to the floor and was especially hard on the kachinas, whose legs she wrenched apart, popping them out of their indigenous sockets. After walloping the jujus mercilessly she would put them to sleep, draping them with a tissue and whispering fluffy comforts to them. She was kind to the tortoise, though, whose name she said was also Ig. She carried tortoise Ig everywhere, eventually caving his head in.

Nights Ig soothed herself to sleep by stroking the frayed edge of gauze back and forth across the tip of her nose and moaning. The baby starfished on the floor of the corral beneath a chenille throw with her brain-damaged tortoise double, Luz and Ray collapsed head-to-toe on the space-age sofa above, where they did not say, “What have we done?”

Nor, “We have to get out of here.”

Nor, “I’ve never been so happy.”

Though all were true.

For it was blissed-out chaos up in the canyon, it was joy and love, love for the coin-eyed baby and for each other and for everything, everywhere. But it could not last. (Nothing here could.) Luz spent her afternoons following post-nap Ig around the backyard with the parasol. Days went by and the baby went jumpy, twitching at the crunch of gravel in the rock garden or if Luz snapped open a ration cola.

“What is?” Ig would cry fearfully at the sound.

“Soda,” Luz would say. Ray, “Pop.”

Sometimes Ig jumped at nothing and stood staring at the mountainside, petrified, the Santa Anas keening through the canyon. Luz froze too, her heart gone manic, palping the way Baby Dunn’s had after her father taught her of mountain lions, You won’t see them until they want you to see them.

“What is?” said Ig, meek as dust.

Luz managed, “Nothing, my love,” though she too was trembling. Perhaps Ig knew something they didn’t, felt her people coming for them, somehow. Felt all the horrors creeping up the canyon.

Luz was exhausted, was not drinking water, could never remember where she put her jug. Was maybe sleepwalking.

“You’re holding it,” said Ray, and there was the jug cradled in her arms.

He was not sleeping at all. All night he paced along the wall of windows, peering over the bridge driveway and the laurelless canyon beyond. Ray’s decency had always been a succor, an anchor, and it was still, though now Luz feared it was an anchor buried in the wrong sand.

At night Luz listened to Ray’s patrol and made the first list of her life, unwritten.

—

What we must do:

— leave

— go to Seattle

— find a little cottage on a sound where the air is indigo and ever-jeweled with mist

— take Ig walking in the rainforest, barefoot

— show her velvet moss and steady evergreens and the modest gibbous of glacier on Mount Rainier

— encourage her to stroke gently the fins on the underside of orange mushrooms

— pry open rotting logs and watch grubs and slugs and earthworms at their enrichment business

— let her take some of the sweet colloidal humus into her mouth

— come upon a moose, his antlers splayed like great hands raised to God, his ancient beard swaying as he saunters silently through the forest

— return home, where Ray must be stirring a big pot of chili and I must assemble a rainbow salad and Ig must set her dolls kindly on the redwood windowsill, all in a row

— eat dinner on a picnic table or on the porch Ray built, sipping from tall beaded glasses of ice water, watching orcas breech across the sound

One night, Luz came to at the lip of the starlet’s dry unshreddable pool, the moon a pale blade overhead, her fingers in a jar of capers. She blinked; she did not even like capers. She stood staring at the inky mountainside, its sinister stillness, the slug of it, tasting the vinegar tang inside her mouth. She saw the Nut trailing them in circles around the yard, saw his mongrel dog hung by its rope leash from the barren lemon tree. The daddy-o on the driveway bridge. The starlet going wicker in the ravine. Ig stumbling from the wrecked raindance bungalows.

She returned to the mansion and found Ray sitting in the hallway opposite the unyielding wall of glass. She slid down beside him and took his face. “Let’s go to Seattle,” she said.

He frowned drowsily. “There’s militia at the Oregon border. You know that.” Washington State had stopped accepting Mojav relocation applications.

Luz said, “Idaho then. I read there’re these mountains near Boise and when the sun sets they turn purple. Every day. Something about the altitude. And in the foothills there are these marshes and in the spring they pulse this electric green. You almost can’t look at them.”

“Still?”

No, no more wetlands in Idaho, no grass whatsoever west of the hundredth. “Oh yeah,” she said. “In Idaho? Hella. Idaho’s golden. We’ll take Ig there, she can run around, spaz out. Go apeshit, like kids are supposed to. No more circling the pen.”

Ray smiled at the glass, spacey and fatigued. “That sounds nice.”

Luz wished they were not in the hallway, the ravine of the house. She could not convince him of anything in the hallway. She looked into his reflecting eyes. “They’re going to come for us.”

He shook his head.

“The trucks, Ray.”

“They don’t come up here.”

“They will. Eventually they will.”

Luz watched Ray’s face where it hovered in the glassy black, hollow, ghostly. He clenched his jaw, his impression of a Marine. “I won’t let them,” he said.

“There’s nothing you can do, bub.” She touched him. “We need to get legit.”

Just then, a thin little wailing came to them from Ig’s pen. Ray nearly sprang up, but Luz tethered him down—“Wait her out”—and they sat still as wolves, with Ig calling out in her Ig language. Ray made prayer hands and tugged on his lips with them. It hurt him to leave her this way, Luz could tell. It hurt them both, physically, her voice twine tethered to their bellies, looped around the nodes and coils of their hearts, lungs, bowels. Already, that was so. Finally, the child settled into silence.

Luz whispered, “We’ll have a chance, on the list.”

“Put ourselves on it? Volunteer?”

She nodded.

“Our part for the cause.”

“I’m serious, Ray.”

“What about her?”

Luz said, “We’ll get her a birth certificate.” Their old group had ways of procuring such documents.

“Luz, I can’t—”

“We’ll say we’re married.”

“Luz—”

“That we got married in the church.” It surprised Luz, how happy even the prospect of this lie made her. She had not thought of herself as someone who wanted to be married, let alone married in a church, but apparently she was.

“Luz, I have to tell you something. Will you listen?” Ray took in a slow, bottomless breath and looked Luz in the eyes. He giggled.

It was not a sound she would have guessed was in him. He gasped shallowly, embarrassed, and out burbled more giggles. “I — he he heh — I can’t go. Ha ha! I can’t go on the list.”

“What?”

“I mean, heh, look — ha ha!” His eyes were wide and manic. “There’s just nothing — ha ha!” He clasped his hands over his mouth. “I’m sorry. I can’t stop. I’m afraid. But I’m being serious — hee hee hee!”

Luz said, “I don’t…”

Ray pressed his face between his hands. “Okay: in the service — heh. Hee hee! Okay: I was in medical school. Did I tell you that?” He had not. “But I quit. Dropped out. Went into the service. I was a medic, sort of. Guys would come to me, all fucked up. All fucked up. I didn’t know what to do. I gave a few of them pills. Standard. I took them, too. So we could sleep. Hee hee — we couldn’t sleep, Luz. More guys came to me. More and more. I gave them what we needed. We took Roxicet, oxy, fentanyl lollipops. Whatever I had.” He stopped giggling. “They were just so fucked up. Everybody was.”

Luz watched his shapes moving across the glass wall. “Lollipops?”

“We were on leave — in San Diego,” his voice on the upswing, as if San Diego were a friend they had in common, “and one of the guys, his buddy had been busted on patrol with morphine patches plastered all over his ass cheeks. They were going to get me. I mean, I’m the only one with a case of fucking made-in-the-USA morphine patches. Fort Leavenworth.” Then, when she clearly did not know what the words Fort or Leavenworth had to do with any of this, he said, “Prison. Military prison. I, well, you know… ran.”

They watched each other in the glass.

“Ass cheeks?” said Luz. She was just saying words.

“We used to do that — the sweat helps. Zaps it into your system.”

Time had gotten woozy under them. It was hard to tell how long they went without speaking. Ray was waiting for something from her, she realized, so she said, “You’re.” It was all she could summon.

“AWOL, I guess you’d say,” then one loud, hard laugh burst from him, “Bah! Goddamn it.”

“Shh,” Luz said, meaning, Don’t wake her.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you, but… I’m sorry.”

She was putting things together now. She looked up. “We can’t evac.”

“Not without a clean ID.”

“And if we try—”

“They’ll arrest me. Take her for sure.”

This was true, and unthinkable.

The wildfires pulsed behind them, and beyond those the Oregon militiamen cleaned their fingernails. The gatemen at Lake Tahoe changed shifts, one pausing to pluck a tendril of red thread from the other’s uniform. Everything here was ash. Chalkdust and filament. Everything here could be obliterated with a wave of her hand, and she waved her hands all the time.

Ray wept, briefly. Luz touched his face. “We’re lost,” he said eventually, and Luz whispered, “We’re not.” But Ray said again that they were, and Luz was convinced.

And so, lost, they succumbed to sleep.

—

If Ray thrashed his nightly thrashing, Luz did not know it. She woke raw, bewildered, sore deep in her hips and in the shoulder she’d slept on. Her love was gone, already awake and away, a tiny betrayal, no matter that it happened daily. She rose, discovered Ig gone too, and searched for them in the half-light. She found Ray pacing in the indigoed backyard, holding Ig to him, speaking something into her glowy head. He looked up at Luz. His features were defeated, even his gorgeous mouth eroded by the expectation of dawn.

Ray came around to Luz, a new posture of resolve. “I’m sorry about all that, babygirl. I am.”

“I know.”

“I’ll fix it. I will. We’ll get the birth certificate, a clean ID. I’ll take care of everything.” That was what he’d been telling Ig, that he was going to get his shit together, be on top of every damn thing from here on out. Also how quickly one’s beliefs and values and principles and philosophies — all the biggies — could be reduced to a matter of paperwork. Ray said, “We’ll need to go to see Lonnie.”

Luz inhaled. “I don’t want to go there.”

“I know you don’t.” He kissed her temple. “I don’t either. But we have to.”

It was a question whether Lonnie and Rita and the others would still be at the complex, a question answered when Ray approached the building made of snagging stucco, pink like the inner swirls of a conch, so much like the inner folds of a cunt, he thought, and bashed his open hand against the metal gate, bashed as so many others had bashed when he and Luz lived here. Shapes responded in the morning haze, moving along the periphery of the courtyard. The building was constructed like many apartment buildings in Santa Monica: a two-story square with a courtyard and a pool in the center, one heavy metal gate, the architecture of fortification, of circled wagons, as if the city had known what was coming, which, it hardly needs saying, she had.

“Go the fuck away!” said the shape at the gate, hood up and bandanna pulled over its face. A new guy.

Ray said, “Be cool man, I know Lonnie.”

“Fuck you do.”

“Yes, fuck, I do.”

“Get the fuck out of here, you fuck, before I blow your fucking brains out.”

Ray sighed. “Okay, fella. Just tell him Ray’s here. Ray and Luz. Could you do that?”

The shape hesitated — scrutinizing Ig where she was on her not-mother’s hip, maybe — then receded. Luz hung back with the baby, wishing Lonnie’s face would and would not materialize behind the grating.

It did not. Instead it was Rita, Lonnie’s girl, her carroty hair tufted into berms by body soil, the green-black at the tips the last of her grown-out dye. A relief, even though Rita hated Luz now — probably everyone here did. Rita’s tiny eyes, fringed by pale lashes, squinted behind the grating, then went for a second up, where a thick swath of tar had been slathered atop the complex wall. From the tar jutted sharpened sticks and spearheads of broken glass. That was new. Rita stowed something in her billowy skirt — a weapon, they didn’t have to guess — and opened the door.

She embraced Ray, who nodded overhead and said, “Bit overkill, don’t you think?”

Rita rolled her eyes. “I know, right?” Then she saw Ig.

She took a small step back. Rita did not come to Luz — Luz did not expect her to — only stared, vaguely horrified, at where the child clung to Luz, grunting drowsily like some lesser primate.

They hadn’t seen Lonnie or Rita in eight months. It might have been eight years. Rita had been stocky, plump as a flounder, big shelf of an ass and gigantic breasts that led her around, made her seem powerful. Luz had always been afraid of her, even when they were supposedly friends. But Rita was thin now, so thin that her tattoos seemed withered. The half-sleeve art nouveau Holy Mother on her right forearm, cherry blossoms and thick gashes of Sanskrit up the inside of her left, Johnny Cash giving the finger from the bicep, a fish skeleton fossilized along her neck, supposedly traced from an ancient urn, all sagged a little, except the asterisks signifying assholes on the spit of bone behind each ear. Even Rita’s signature bullring drooped now from her septum as though her cartilage was fatigued. She’d removed the disks from her ears and the lobes now dangled in melting Os that, Luz noted vindictively, Ig could have put her fist through.

What was Rita before the water went? (Before they took the water, Rita would’ve said, and Luz once, too.) She should have been the drummer in a punk band in a scene so far underground, it would never see the light of day. She should have been barefoot, murdering the double bass pedals on a cover of “Too Drunk to Fuck,” cracking her cymbals, pulverizing her sticks and chucking the splinters into the crowd. She should have been spitting blood on the boys who deposited plastic cups of liquor at her feet. But it had been a dude unloading on the double bass, her boss spitting the blood, Rita depositing the liquor and doing his grocery shopping at the nice Ralphs in the Palisades, Rita driving him to and from LAX, wiping his chow chow’s ass.

“You look like run-over dog shit,” Rita said to Ray. “Are you drinking enough water?”

Another tired joke, but Ray laughed generously. That was his way.

“Come in,” said Rita. “He thought you’d be down.”

Inside the complex, Luz saw that the trees that had once stood in the corners of the courtyard had been ripped up, which did not necessarily surprise her — pretty much all the trees in Santa Monica had been hacked down, even the landward planks of the pier had been scavenged for firewood, the carnival unmoored out on its island of pilings, the Ferris wheel unmoving, unwheeling. Rather, it was the holes where the trees had been that unsettled Luz, dark, expectant as graves. There were never so many hazards in the world as there were today. Love made you see them all.

“What is?” asked Ig.

“Holes,” said Luz.

“Oles,” said Ig.

At the center of the courtyard was the dry swimming pool, its lip glistening black with grind wax. Ray paused over the enviable glob. Chalky sky blue, a color named such before the sky went bloodred with ash, and that before blood went xanthic for want of iron. Luz waited, squeezed Ig to feel the baby resist. Beneath their shoes were the spots where Lonnie’s grandfather, the Persian Jew slumlord of Koreatown, had scattered huge hunks of rock salt along the wet concrete, wanting to mimic the popular pocking of American midcentury driveways. But the salt took forever to dissolve — no moisture — and instead of the subtle stippling of Pasadena, it left behind craters the size of unshelled peanuts. Among those craters, heartening and forgotten imprints where Lonnie’s oma had laid leaves from neighborhood trees atop the wet pour: melaleuca and magnolia and camphor and jacaranda and sweet gum, all the citizens of the so-called urban forest long since charred to carbon.

Luz would have liked to leave Ray beside the dry pool and show Ig the spot Ray had shown her, near the laundry room that had been their room, where the fossil of a spruce sprig was flanked by two gentle divots: Oma’s fingerprints, from where she’d laid the spruce. But to go to the sprig would be to go to the laundry room, would be to go to the chemical and supposedly orchid smell of an ancient half-gone box of dryer sheets, would be to slide down the greased wormhole that scent can be, to their first time, to go to Ray’s bedroll, his canvas duffel, his nine Red Cross candles lined up on a shelf beside his can opener, which she could not stop counting the night — their last in this complex — when she woke Ray and told him, I kissed Lonnie. I let him kiss me. And touch me. We—

— I know.

— I’m sorry.

— Did you want to?

— No. It just happened.

— Why?

— I don’t know. I was fucked up and flattered. I liked that he wanted me.

— Everyone wants you. It’s your job.

— Not anymore. Not like that.

— I want you.

— I know you do.

— Do you want me?

— Yes, Ray. Of course I do. It wasn’t about that. I liked that he liked me.

— Did you like it?

— No. I don’t know. Liking didn’t really come into it.

— Jesus.

And later, because she could not resist:

— How did you know?

— What?

— You said, “I know.”

Ray, disgusted: You came to bed smelling like him.

Luz had to pull it together now. They were here for a reason. Ig squirmed to be put down but Luz told her to shh.

Rita retrieved a wreath of gold keys from the folds of her skirt and unlocked the red door to the apartment she shared with Lonnie, back in the far corner of the complex.

Ray said, “You’re locking doors now?”

Before, all five doors opening onto the courtyard were always wide open or taken off the hinges completely — all except for the storage room, unit B. No locks at the compound, no structure, only frolicsome joy and jam sessions, pranks and all-night debates, raids of merry looting and after these a Christmas-morning vibe. Anyone and everyone was free to come and go, so long as they were committed to the cause and traveled light. No rules was a rule, no labels, and no hierarchy, stressed Lonnie, who owned the place.

Now, all five doors were re-hinged, shut and outfitted with shiny new deadbolts. Rita jangled her keys. “Ch-ch-ch-changes.”

But Lonnie’s apartment was as it had always been, owing to Lonnie’s pathetic Oedipal preservation of the décor meticulously assembled by his mother, the shikse feng shui guru. Here were her star charts, her compasses, her astrolabes of brass and some of lacquered wood. Here were her gnomon, her trigrams, her incense coils gone scentless. There, her dragon head medallions, her color wheels, her innumerable bouquets of plastic bamboo, jabbed into vases half-filled with iridescent glass droplets. Here was her coffee table Zen fountain, now merely a bowl of rocks. Here, here, here, swallowing everything, dense drapes, drapes upon drapes, drapes atop drapes, drapes intertwined with other heavier, darker, mausoleum-making drapes.

Rita directed Luz and Ray to an L-shaped sofa in the darkened living room. She left to find Lonnie. Luz sat on the floor with Ig. She took tortoise Ig from the starlet’s orange crocodile birkin-turned-diaper-bag and presented him to human Ig with some other toys — not the kachinas, she had thrown the kachinas in the ravine. Ig did not bother with the toys. Her coin eyes rolled in their sockets, looking for Rita.

Luz, jealous, leaned down and whispered to the child. “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.”

“I wouldn’t lead with that,” said Rita, returning.

Lonnie loped in behind her, wearing some kind of orange-gold robe, itself once a drape, Luz was sure. The robe was cinched around his narrow waist with a chain of sterling silver conchos, each faceted with a gob of turquoise. Lonnie had dressed this way on occasion, the solstice or the Fourth of July, a joke or a near-joke. But there was no joke in it now. He stood in a way that begged to be described as regal. His head was shaved though his black eyebrows were as intense as ever. A long, dense goatee hung from his chin, sculpted square and unmoving, facial hair of the pharaohs. Luz wondered fleetingly where he got the razor. A stupid question, for Lonnie was the great procurer; why they’d come.

“Brother,” he said, pulling Ray into an embrace. He waited for Luz to stand, too. When she did he grinned and hugged her chastely.

“You’re kidding,” Lonnie said down to Ig. “I thought for sure she was fucking with me.” He knelt and Luz fermented inwardly at the thought of him touching the baby. She’s not a baby, Ray would have said and indeed had been saying. To which Luz would reply, She’s a relative baby, meaning maybe that she was closer to being a baby than a girl, or meaning maybe that they just got her and so she was newborn to them. Ray would have said, too, Please behave yourself — was in fact at this moment saying it with his breath and his posture and his darting eyes and the taut filaments of his facial muscles, all of which served to remind her that Lonnie was the only person who could help them, and that she should be gracious, or do her best impression of someone gracious, despite the fact that in any other context she would have hated him.

Squatting, Lonnie said to Ig, “Hello, pretty girl.”

No, she hated him here.

“Say hi, Ig,” said Ray. “Ig, say hi.” Ig refused. The car ride had lulled her to sleep, and she had perhaps not forgiven them for yanking her from the buttery backseat. “Can you say hi?”

“She doesn’t want to,” said Luz.

Lonnie adjusted his robes and sat at the vertex of the L sofa, Rita beside him. Ray sat at the end of the L’s long leg and Luz returned to the floor. Ig, free to do as she pleased now, crawled beyond the coffee table to Rita — she had reverted to crawling lately — and offered her Ig the tortoise.

“She’s giving it to you,” said Luz.

“I’m good,” said Rita, though Ig insisted and finally Rita let the saliva-softened tortoise corpse rest on her lap.

“This is something of a novelty,” said Lonnie. “How old is she?”

“One,” Luz said, already wanting to keep her young forever.

Rita scoffed. “Big for one.” They sat with that awhile.

“So what’s the deal?” Lonnie asked finally, aggressively caressing his shorn head. “Luz making some extra money babysitting?” Luz did not meet his gaze.

Ray said, “What do you mean?”

“I guess what I mean is the last time I saw you two you didn’t have a baby. Luz was not pregnant, so far as I could tell, you two were not in the process of cooking up a puppy. And you certainly, so far as I can recall, did not have a newborn. Did they have a newborn, Rita? Or am I demented?”

Luz pulled Ig back from the glass coffee table, almost thankful to Lonnie for forcing the question. Did what they’d done have language in Ray’s mind? And what were the words?

Ray’s Muir eyes were dry when he told Lonnie, “We found her.”

Lonnie leaned back and smiled. “I know how that is. We found a Red Cross flatbed. We found a few dozen guns.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Luz said, by which she meant, We’re not like you.

“No, I’m into it. Upend everything. Snatch all the Montessori canyon babies from their cribs. I just wish we’d thought of it.”

Rita muttered that all the Montessori canyon babies were gone.

“Truth,” said Lonnie. “Where then?”

They did not answer.

“Don’t say it.”

Ray rubbed his mouth.

“Jesus,” said Rita.

“Fuck me, Ray,” said Lonnie. “Some serious cats down there. Some serious cats even I wouldn’t want for enemies.”

“I know,” said Ray, which was puzzling because he had never said as much to Luz, so either the genuine dangers of raindance had just occurred to him or — and this was the truth, she knew — he had been thinking it all along, those serious cats had been with him those sleepless nights in the canyon and he’d kept them to himself. Here comes Luz, don’t make any sudden movements. She was not a serious cat.

Ray said, “We came here for a favor.”

Lonnie leaned back on the sofa and stretched both his arms to rest atop it. “Naturally. Only reason anyone comes here anymore.”

Ray took a breath. Luz saw how brutally he wished he were not about to say the thing he was about to say. “We’re leaving. Going on the list.”

Rita scoffed. Ig body-slammed her tortoise self on the glass coffee table, shuddering some stones from the fountain and setting them spinning on the glass. Luz retrieved Ig, fetched her nini from the birkin and used it to coax the child into lying in her lap.

Lonnie was still, then neatly took the dislodged Zen rocks into his hand. He looked stunned — even saddened, Luz saw, which was so unexpected and baffling that she kept watching him until she was sure that was the expression. Then she realized: he must have thought they were coming back. That they had come now to ask his permission to rejoin the complex. Of course. He’d donned his best Krishna curtains in preparation for their groveling. He was a small, needy creature who looked now as though he might utter a disgusting phrase, something along the lines of I believed in you. (Almost as unforgivable as the bald admiration he’d whispered before he’d had her, those months ago: Oh, Luz, in another life!) Luz rubbed Ig’s back and prayed he wouldn’t make a scene, though she would not have called it prayer.

Lonnie sniffed once and dropped the stones back into the bowl, eyeing Ig as though she were a strange dog come upon them. Luz saw Ig then as Lonnie must have: stunted and off, lopsided head, eyes lolling of their own accord. She had the hot urge to scream that there was nothing wrong with Ig. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Finally, mercifully, Lonnie said just, “California, the failed experiment.”

Ray tiptoed over his old friend’s withered pride and said, “We have to, Lonnie.”

“Clearly.”

“We need a birth certificate,” said Luz. “And an ID for Ray.”

Lonnie raised his eyebrows at Ray. “So she knows? Good for you, brother.”

Ray nodded. “Can you help us?”

Lonnie flattened a seam of his curtain robe. “Can’t do it. No one can. Can’t be done anymore.”

Ray said, “We can pay you.” They’d brought the hatbox.

“Don’t insult me. There’s nothing I can do.”

“Come on,” said Luz.

“A clean ID, a birth certificate—it’s too much. Six months ago, maybe. But now… Everything’s contracting, everyone’s drying up. Even if I could, man, do you know what they do to us in those places? It’s not a vacation, Ray. First thing they’ll do is give you each a number, next thing is split you up, paperwork or no. Men one way, women another. Whole garrisons just for kids. ‘Boarding,’ they call it. Labor camps. Your part for the cause. Only way out is to enlist, and I gather that’s not available to you.”

They were quiet awhile, even Ig.

Ray said, “Another way, then.”

Lonnie brightened. He needed to be needed. Indeed, there were endless other ways, he said, each illegal and treacherous. He got a visible charge as he listed them all, a little danger boner. One was Oregon, yes. The militia could not be everywhere. There were the tunnels, of course, dug by former dairymen with subsidized earthmovers, though the dairymen were not fond of dark complexions, and their tunnels had a habit of collapsing. “Better to drive up to Crescent City,” he said. “Hitch to the border, swim out around the seawall.”

Ray shook his head. “Luz can’t swim.”

Lonnie said, “I thought she was Mexican.”

“Her mom was.”

Lonnie inspected Luz. “And she didn’t teach you?”

Luz was not going to bite. She focused on grazing her fingerpads along Ig’s nape.

“She couldn’t either,” Ray said. She had drowned, Luz’s mother. She had drowned herself.

Lonnie tugged his Osiris goatee. “The gorge, then. Hike the badlands. Take you two weeks, maybe three.”

Ray frowned toward Ig, limp under Luz’s feather strokes. “We need something safe.”

“You want safe, bribe your way into Tahoe.”

“Or Napa,” Rita said. “The Vintners Society could pay people to stand around and spit.”

Lonnie laughed, then went serious. “Maybe through Texas.”

Ray said, “We don’t have enough gas.”

“No one does,” said Lonnie.

“What if we went south?” asked Luz.

Rita snorted. “Mexico’s a war zone. A complete and utter war zone. Worse than here. Approximately a thousand times worse.”

Lonnie squeezed Rita’s knee. “The Amargosa is blocking it anyway. They’d be stranded in Baja.”

“It’s that big?” Ray said. “The Amargosa?”

Rita said, “Getting bigger every day.”

Lonnie tapped one of his conchos absently. “The Amargosa, now that’s interesting. If I was going anywhere — which I’m fucking not — I’d go to the Amargosa.”

Rita nodded.

“What for?” asked Luz. The Amargosa was sand, a dead swath of it blown off the Central Valley and the Great Plains, accumulated somewhere between here and Vegas.

“There’s supposed to be a town out there,” said Ray. How did he know this? How did she not know everything he knew?

“There is a town out there,” said Lonnie, “run by a prophet. Very spiritual place. Very primal.”

“A town,” said Luz. “Without water.”

“This prophet,” Lonnie said, “is descended from a long line of dowsers. Incredibly gifted. He finds the water.”

This again. There was always some savior out in the wilderness, some senator, some patent, some institute, some cell. So familiar, this stagey faith. Luz’s father had had it; it was how he kept himself atop everyone around him. He believed harder in stupider things, and there was somehow authority in this. Luz exhaled audibly and rolled her eyes. Ray put his hand on her shoulder.

But Lonnie was getting worked up. “There is water, Luz. Just because you can’t find it with concrete and bulldozers and dynamite doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

Rita added, in a cool, inward way that made Luz miss her, suddenly, “Just because they say it’s gone doesn’t make it gone.”

Silence then. A stalemate, a standoff, a standstill, a stillborn. A rain delay. How it was always to end, except Lonnie bounced up and announced, “Let’s do a reading.”

From a drawer in the kitchen he fetched three golden Sacajawea dollars and his tattered catalog of hexagrams, The Book of Changes. He set these on the coffee table, beside that a mechanical pencil and a tiny top-tab spiral notebook, the same kind Ray carried for his lists and poems. Vile, to see Lonnie with it, though of course it had been Ray and Lonnie both who said, “We’re going to run some errands,” before they lobbed a cinder block through the glass doors of the Wilshire Walgreens, a box boasting POCKET SIZE among their loot.

Lonnie fondled the coins now and told everyone to think on their worry, to project their question into the Sacajawea dollars.

Ray said, “All of us?”

Lonnie nodded. “A hexagram,” he said, “is the exponent of the moment it is cast.” Their endeavors, he said — meaning, Luz assumed, a looted journalist’s pad, a mechanical pencil whose red plastic clip was gnawed and three dollops of copper sheathed in brass and stamped with the image of a Shoshone girl kidnapped at twelve and wed at thirteen, when a Frenchman won her in a card game — would correct for their secretmost selves.

Luz had too many worries to think on just one, and her secretmost self was not secret enough, but while it was all undeniably bullshit, she found herself trying.

Here was one worry: Ig. She was worry pooping into an Hermès scarf, worry with skittering coin eyes, worry moaning in the daytime, worry panting at the heat, worry howling through the night. Worry strung out on ration cola, worry with its bulbed head in Luz’s lap. Worry drowsy but fighting it, always fighting it, worry worrying the gauze blooming from her mouth. Worry gathering all other worries to them. But Ig was too delicate to resent, too pearly-skinned to solve, and right now, stroking the tip of her nose with the tip of the nini, vastly too gentle, so much like a godsend.

Lonnie shook the Sacajaweas from his hand and let them land noisily on the glass coffee table—ting ting ting—oblivious or indifferent or likely hostile to Ig so near to nap.

The coins skittered to rest. Two Sacajaweas with two baby Jean Baptistes on their backs, and beside them a bushel of wheat — or maybe arrows? — wrapped in a blanket. Lonnie annotated the whims of the coins in his notebook. “A broken line.”

He took up the coins again.

Luz looked to Ray. She could see him and Lonnie in the same glance and hated herself. Would she always be so hungry? She had taken much from Ray — his home, his friends, his sleep, his sea. Was there no end to her appetite?

Ting ting ting: Three Sacajaweas, three lady Salmon-Eaters with three Little Pompeys, as Clark had christened him, barely born. A line unbroken.

And through that line rose the worry of worries: in what way was Ray no longer her Ray? Luz did not want to take this from him — California, all that it still meant to him — but was glad to, in a way. The sacrifice was a good sign. But what would it cost them? They were lost, yes, but lost together.

Ting ting ting. On one coin, Janey and Pompey, and on the other, an eagle and the other the arrows. A broken line.

“Wow,” Lonnie said. “Oh, wow.”

Ray’s eyes were closed now and his dark lashes met in small, furred slivers. There he was, her Ray, Ray always on the move, his knees ever bouncing. Ray who took her fingers from her mouth so she would not bite them bloody. Ray with the exquisite mouth and its Indiana lapses, saying “pop” or “frigging” or that something was “funky.” Ray who once said he envied her imagination, but also that the places her mind took her frightened him. Ray who said she ought to have a project — Napping is my project, she’d say, but she had not napped since Ig. Ray who said she ought to pay attention to the ration hour, Ought to keep your eyes peeled, he said, as though hers were still coated with a glittery scrim of cosmetics, which they likely were. Ray who tethered her to rock, rock she was now ripping him from.

Lonnie tossed the coins again. Ting ting ting. One Sacajawea looking over her shoulder at her boy or at home, beside her an eagle, beside that the blanket-bound arrows. A broken line.

Ray with Muir’s eyes and wavesickness and a list in his pocket.

L.

Water.

Ting ting ting. An eagle, his twin, and Sacajawea with her little Pomp. A broken line.

Here was a worry: Luz. Her whole self a worry. How had her father put it? Luz is my cross to bear.

Ting ting ting. The eagles, gliding through rings of stars, and beside them, the bouquet of wheat arrows wound with the blanket. An unbroken line.

Lonnie moaned, as if his own wisdom pained him. He set the pad on the coffee table, the miniature sheet lined with addition sets and beside those:

He consulted a chart, then an index, then flipped through the pages. He cleared his throat. “Chun,” he read. “The abysmal, the arousing. This hexagram connotes a blade of grass pushing against an obstacle as it sprouts out of the earth — hence the meaning ‘difficulty at the beginning.’” He looked up at them, in case they had missed this profound foreshadowing. “The hexagram indicates the way in which heaven and earth bring forth individual beings. It is their first meeting, which is beset with difficulties. The lower trigram, chên”—he tapped the pad—“is the Arousing; its motion is upward and its image is thunder. The upper trigram is the Abysmal, the dangerous.” Again, another glance, which said, Are you getting this? “Its motion is downward and its image is rain. The situation points to teeming chaotic profusion; thunder and rain fill the air.” Here, he cocked his head apologetically. “This edition’s a little outdated.”

He went on. “But the chaos clears up. While the Abysmal sinks, the upward movement eventually passes beyond the danger. A thunderstorm brings release from tension, and all things breathe freely again.”

Luz leaned over to check if Ig was asleep. She was not. She was lying tranquil, slack, still stroking the tip of her nose with the gauze.

“Times of growth are beset with difficulties,” read Lonnie. “They resemble a first birth.” Rita snorted wickedly. “Everything is in motion: therefore if one perseveres there is a prospect of great success. Fascinating.”

Lonnie turned the page. “Let’s see, let’s see,” consulting the pad. “Nine, six.” He popped another page. “Here: Nine at the beginning means: hesitation and hindrance. It furthers one to remain persevering. It furthers one to appoint helpers.” This last he said as though the word were a good friend he had not seen in a long time, the way Ray had said San Diego: Helpers! He flipped another page. “Six. Six in the second place means: difficulties pile up. Horse and wagon part.”

He slowly closed the book. Rita said, “Hmm,” and so did Ray.

Lonnie stacked the pad on the book and the pencil beside it and leaned back. “This is what we’ll do,” he said after some conspicuous reflection. “I have a man in St. George. If you can make it there, to Utah, he’ll get you to a train in Lawrence, Kansas. The Carolinas, I think he takes them. Ultimately Savannah.”

“You have ‘a man’?” Luz said.

Ray said, “Easy,” but it was too late.

“Yes, Luz, I have a man. I have all kinds of men—”

“Shh,” said Luz. She spread her hand across Ig’s bare back, her pinky and her thumb finding the child’s floating ribs. “I’m sorry.”

“Damn right you are. Come here asking for a favor and criticize the way I do business—”

“Business,” she said.

“Ease up,” said Ray, though it was not clear to whom.

“—playing the baby makes three up in the canyon while we’ve had to survive—”

Lonnie went on. In fact there was no water crisis, he maintained. Theirs was a human crisis. What they called drought was merely the mechanism of a long overdue social contraction. A little agony was just what this place needed. Reintroduce hardship into the regional narrative. Sift out the posers and moneymen, the tourists, the sunbathers, the whores. Slough off the bourgeoisie! Euthanize the comfort culture! After: a pure city, liberated from its toxic pecking order, rid of its meet-ups and mixers, its principals and agents and managers murdered, a city of freed assistants, a city pure of heart.

Luz had heard it all before. She went lichen, pressing her palm to Ig, her own flat, cool boulder. She and Ig and John Muir were slate blue and sea green. They were a tuft of moss in Yosemite before Yosemite was a dry, ruined chasm ringed by hot granite knobs. They were a spray of fungi leaning out over Crater Lake before it went entirely crater. They were lichen on stone, dormant beneath the snowpack of a hangnail glacier in a crook of the Cascades that no one knew about, that no one even knew the name of. Lonnie was saying, “… giving them exactly what they want… resist… endure… sickening.” Luz hunkered, unfurled her sagey petals, breathed through boreal ruffles, absorbed with her felt fins snowmelt and fog and mist and dew, all things moist, all things cool, and passed them to Ig.

Lonnie said to Ray, “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I say it? I told you about her. I told you.”

“Told you what?” asked Luz, returned.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Ray.

“Tell her!” cried Lonnie.

“Things are different now.” Ray looked to Ig.

Luz said, “Tell me, Ray.”

He might have — Luz hoped he wouldn’t but he might have, she could see this — but Rita rose. “Come with me, Luz.”

“Good idea,” said Lonnie. “I can’t fucking talk to her.”

Luz did not want to go with Rita. She looked at Ray, motioned to Ig in her lap. She wanted him to come and lift them both and take them away from here.

“She’s fine,” he said. “Leave her.”

Luz insisted with her eyes.

“No,” said Ray. “We’re not doing this now.”

Despite Ig’s wan objections, Luz left her lying on the floor.

Outside, the sun had made its way over the walls of the fortification, burnt the dawn from the courtyard and was now doing its evil bake work above. Luz followed Rita to unit B, though the brass B was gone, leaving only two nail holes and its shadow in the lacquer. Luz had never been in unit B. She had never seen anyone go into unit B. She had never seen anyone come out. Rita unlocked the door now and jerked her head to say, as Ray had said at raindance, Go.

Luz went.

Rita shut the door behind them. It was lightless inside, all smells: desiccate cardboard, dust, hot plastic. It occurred to Luz that Rita might want to hurt her and she was fine with that. She had it coming. There could be some comfort in at last getting what was expected and deserved.

Luz stepped forward and crashed her shin into something sharp and stumbled. Rita moved toward her — Luz felt her approaching in the dark — and then easily past. From the back of the apartment came a shaft of sun, wobbling where Rita pinned a heavy drape behind a tower of cardboard boxes. All around them were boxes, the unit filled with them. A small city of boxes and heavy-duty garbage bags squatting among the boxes like fat black ticks.

Without speaking or looking to Luz, Rita began to pilfer. She wedged herself between towers of boxes, sending some swaying, heaved some boxes and bags from one pile to another. Occasionally she punched in the sides of one and stripped the packing tape from its seam. She glanced inside, extracted something, resealed it and moved on. The boxes read SYSCO and WINCO and FRITO-LAY, many smiled a logo smile, nearly all had arrows pointing skyward. Rita moved fast and methodically; she knew the boxes by heart, Luz realized. This and what came next would follow Luz into the desert.

“Take this,” Rita said, from somewhere deep within her box borough.

She gave Luz a garbage bag. It was half-full but heavy and Luz held it open like a child asking for something. “What’s this?” Inside was slick plastic in pastels, puffy teal cubes and countless doughy faces, all of them caught in the act of laughter.

Rita put more bounty into the sack. “He’s too good for you, you know. Ray.”

“I know.”

“It’s not your fault, though. He’s too good for anyone.”

Rita rifled still, and into the garbage bag went more diapers, rubber nipples, a thermometer, burp cloths, bottle of powder, bottle of oil, tube of rash cream, tube of ointment, a bushel of used onesies. Two cans of formula.

Luz said, “Why do you have all this?”

“Doesn’t matter. Here.” Rita presented Luz a car seat.

She was a good woman, Rita.

The A/C had quit outside Santa Clarita, started blowing hot, syrup-smelling smoke in what was once strawberry country. “What is?” Ig asked from the backseat, and though she knew Ray would scowl at her for it (and he did), Luz had said, “A very bad omen.” But Ig was asleep now, and because Luz did not know how to drive stick — even the phrase she found unpleasant — she sat in the passenger seat in the starlet’s slip, sweating and watching the crusty wasted fields fold past. She rolled the window down, hoping to smell the sea, but they were well inland and the wind was not cooperating and all that came in was a vicious cyclone of heat and dust that whipped her across the face with tendrils of her own dirty hair. She would never smell the Pacific again.

She rolled up the window. She’d sweated through the starlet’s slip in places — eclipses leeching from her armpits, a Rorschach line below her breasts — and the silk clung to her. She wanted to sleep — needed to — but could not. The dress she’d peeled off outside Ridgecrest was wadded somewhere on the floorboards in the backseat. She should have worn shorts, a tank top, boots. Ray had said as much before they left, but Luz ignored him. After one last round of dress-up she took Ray’s hand as they stood facing the starlet’s indifferent, cantilevered villa.

“Say good-bye with me,” she said. “Be a husband.”

Ray saluted. “Good-bye, house.”

Luz frowned. “I meant silently.” She closed her eyes, keeping his hand in hers. Behind them, on the bridge driveway, was the Melon, loaded with diapers, rubber nipples, a thermometer, burp cloths, bottle of powder, bottle of oil, tube of rash cream, tube of ointment, bushel of onesies. Two cans of formula plus eight Sparkletts bottles filled with gasoline, two with water, a flat of ration cola, a cubic foot of graham crackers, another of dry cereal, a plastic grocery bag filled with PowerBars, canned food from Rita and Lonnie’s stash — sardines, mostly, and some tuna — scarves, sunglasses, hats, biographies, six tiny notebooks bound together with a rubber band, the hatbox with the rest of Luz’s money in it, about one hundred thousand dollars, and in the glove box a manila envelope with the name of an intersection in St. George, Utah, and Lonnie’s guy — Samuel, whom Ray was calling Sammy the Bull — and both of their original IDs, though Ray had wanted to burn his. Also in the envelope, with Sammy the Bull and Ray the Hoosier and Luz Cortez of Malibu, CA, was the birth certificate of Baby Dunn: Luz Eleanor Dunn, six pounds, nine ounces, a greasy smear of black hair atop her head, labia and teats inflamed with her mother’s hormones, a dark, spinachy meconium collecting in a rectum the diameter of a wedding band, a coat of translucent hair all over her body, setting her ashimmer in the sun of suns. A mascot before her mother would wear the velvety fuzz away, loving her. A logo before the ink on the certificate was dry.

Standing in front of the starlet’s, Ray had closed his eyes and sighed peacefully, which had made Luz feel at peace, too.

But that peace had left her now, and an irritable, fidgeting anxiety had taken over. Luz pressed her bare feet against the windshield already smudged with her footprints, then removed them. She consulted the map Lonnie had given them, an old map on which he’d traced a large oval with a question mark inside—“I think that’s where it is.” They would skirt the Amargosa to the north. Each moment she was farther from home than she’d ever been. She couldn’t get comfortable. Whichever way she arranged herself there was something to burn her: the metal tongue of the seat belt, the hot nub on the e-brake, the dash gone waxy, the scorching leather against her thighs, sweating as though still some live thing’s hide.

Her thoughts went to helpers: St. George, Lawrence, Savannah. They sounded like people who couldn’t be trusted. The Carolinas were two mean girls from grade school.

She looked back at Ig, strapped in Rita’s car seat. The seat was not the right size, maybe, and the child slept with her head rolled down and to the side at such an angle that her neck looked broken. Wisps of her yellow-white hair gone lank with perspiration. Dry cereal rings were confettied all over the backseat, one stuck to her blood-flushed cheek. Luz stretched and brushed it off, then touched the back of her hand to the child’s warm, bulbed brow.

“She’s still hot,” Luz said.

Ray glanced in the rearview mirror. “Let her sleep.”

“What if she’s hurting?”

“Wouldn’t she wake up?”

“I don’t know,” said Luz. She cupped the child’s thick, dimpled knee with her hand. “I don’t know.”

The sun at their back was dipping, finally, setting the bald and hazy mountains in the distance aflame.

“She doesn’t have a name,” said Luz. She might know how to mother the child if only she had something proper to call her.

“She does,” said Ray. “Only we don’t know what it is and never will.”

“She’s an orphan,” said Luz. “Like us.”

“We’re not orphans,” he said.

“We are, kind of. We don’t have anyone.”

“That’s true,” said Ray. This made her feel good, annihilation. She would have liked to kiss him, rest her head on his shoulder, but her guilt would not allow it. The visit to the compound had put Lonnie’s scent on her again. But they’d both made mistakes, hadn’t they?

Luz studied the mountains ahead, watched the sunset coloring them as the things gone from them: lilac, plum, lavender, orchid, mulberry, violet. Pomegranate, one of the last to go. John Muir had written how when we try to pick out anything by itself we find it hitched to everything else in the universe. Above those spoilt purple mountains materialized a glowing wedge of light, whiter than the sun, thin, blurred, and radiant. Snow, Luz thought, unable to stop herself. She’d seen snow only once, from a train skirting the Italian Alps, but she had never touched it and already she was zigging up there, ramming her fingers into the cool blue bank until they stung, crunching the puffs of sparkling crystals in her teeth, falling backward to make angels in the airy drifts.

But there was nothing cool or blue or airy about this calcium-colored crust capping the range. It throbbed with heat, glowed radioactive with light. Luz said, “What is that?” just as the answer came to her.

Ray said it. “The dune sea. The Amargosa.”

“It’s that close?” They were barely beyond the city.

Ray shook his head. “It’s that big.”

This knocked Luz off balance: The dune was not atop the empurpled range before them but beyond it, beyond it by miles and miles. The white was not a rind of ice, not a snowcap, but sand piling up inland where the Mojave had been.

They watched this sandsnow mirage, hypnotized by fertilizer dust and saline particulate and the pulverized bones of ancient sea creatures, though they did not know it. Did not know but felt this magnetic incandescence working the way the moon did, tugging at the iron in their blood. Knew only that it left them not breathless but with their breaths exactly synchronized. Ray reached for Luz, took her hand as though he’d never before touched her. They went on, silently transfixed by the immaculate flaxen range looming before them.

Ray whispered, “We could name her Estrella.” After her long-gone mother, he didn’t have to say.

“We could,” said Luz. “Do you want to?”

“Let’s,” Ray said. “Let’s call her that.” Though they almost never would.

—

Night and the moon was high and fat as a fat face — but beautiful! — and Ig was awake with her feet raised and her fingers curled around her big toes, saying, Bab bab babby bab bab. Luz had a good feeling. The Melon and its cargo had been born of the city and now sailed along the crests and trundles of the straight-up desert. It was better than surfing, Ray said, driving at night on an empty road between the swervy prehistoric hills. They emerged from a batch of bare hillocks and saw before them a great alluvial valley, yawningly vast, the dune beyond dreadful with moonlight.

Then, an iridescent glimmer, a figure in the road. Ray downshifted, slowing the Melon, though Luz told him not to. There were patrols and worse. Bandits. Highwaymen. So she’d heard. As they approached, the figure went from in the road to alongside it, from a being to a box. A dollhouse. A storage unit. No, a booth with a sliding glass window and maps pinned to a corkboard, bleached blank. Before them a mechanical arm, spangled with reflective strips, busted at the joint and part supine on the asphalt. Ray swerved around it and the mechanism lurched, whining, raising the pinched arm so it dangled, flapped, begging amputation.

Ig laughed.

Admitted, they descended below what was once the snow line. The road took them down into an immense forest of silver yucca. On and on for miles staggered the woody skeletons, the monocrop broken only occasionally by a feathery date palm, drought-weary, bowed in half, its fruitless head laid on the lifeless ground. But the palms were rare and in the main the valley stretched on and out and up in tessellations of pale soaptree yucca, spiny heads grafted to thick and hearteningly hairy trunks.

“Look, Ig,” said Luz, twisted around in the passenger seat. “Trees!”

But Ig was a baby and could be dismissive in the baby way. She did not take note of the trees.

“Her first forest,” said Ray.

“Let’s stop.”

“A milestone!” Ray steered the Melon to the shoulder.

“Look, Ig.” Luz wanted the baby to see the forest. She wanted the baby to see every new and magnificent thing in the world. Already there was no limit to her yearning on behalf of the baby.

With the Melon’s cuckoo clock engine turned off, the valley was quiet as a shadow. Luz lifted Ig out of the backseat and went off from the road. “Be careful,” said Ray. He had been saying this lately.

Luz held Ig to her as she walked among the moon-cast shadows of the yuccas, smelling charcoal, saline. The baby went quiet, as if even she, irreverent devil that she was, recognized they were traipsing through something sacred. The yuccas were white in the moonlight and some had holes bored in their shaggy trunks, holes so perfect the wind would have whistled through them, except there was no wind. Some of their spines were gauzed with glistening webs. Surely there were creatures tricksy and nocturnal to be spotted within. Ray noted the holes, too. “Look,” he whispered at one, and Ig did.

They walked on and on through the forest, the wise firecracker heads of the yuccas motionless above. The Melon became an enamel droplet on the tarry road behind them. “These are ancient,” said Luz. “They must be.” Ray touched her elbow lightly, then scooped Ig from her. He pinched a knifey yucca frond between his fingers—“Look, Ig. Tree. Can you say tree?”

“Eee,” tried Ig.

He brought Ig closer, her small mouth agape, agog, and as he did he pulled on the frond. There was a sound then, an incongruous sound, like the tearing of very delicate fabric. Gossamer, or cheesecloth. A crepe-ish rip, and the massive hairy yucca swayed, somehow. Luz and Ray staggered back and the tree fell between them, sending up a dry veil of dust. Ig said, “Uh-oh.”

“What the fuck?” said Ray. He pressed his foot to the felled thing and where he pressed the trunk collapsed, papery. Ig laughed like a hiccup. They investigated the broken stump and found it completely hollow, save for some dry, twiny marrow inside.

Luz pushed carefully on the trunk of another towering yucca and it too crumpled to the ground, setting Ig agiggle.

“They’re dead,” Luz said. “All of them.” Dead, without moisture enough to rot.

“The groundwater’s gone,” said Ray, though he’d promised he wouldn’t.

Luz plucked a yucca tine from its socket, then another and another, revealing an arid cavity inside the tree. She looked out over the miles and miles of pale lifeless specimen. This was no forest but a cemetery. Ray felled another plant husk and crushed it beneath his boots, its desiccate death rattle vastly satisfying. Ig reprised her hiccup laugh and clapped. She had never clapped for them and so Luz clapped, then toppled and crushed another tree. Ig clapped again, triumphantly.

“Watch this,” said Ray, and then held Ig aloft as he kicked the spindled torso of an adolescent yucca to dust. The baby went hic, hic, clap, clap.

“Watch this,” said Luz, hoisting a sandstone to her shoulder and shot-putting it clear through the stout trunk of a grandfatherly yucca.

“Bah!” said Ig, clapping like mad.

“Here,” said Ray. He handed Ig over to Luz. He set himself, took a breath, leapt into the air, yipped and torqued a kung fu — type roundhouse kick through the body of a massive hollow plant, splintering it profoundly and sending the spidery head to the ground. Ig laughed and clapped and laughed and clapped.

They continued like this, crushing large swaths through the papier-mâché forest, trampling the flimsy giants, pulverizing the ghostly gray cellulose carcasses and sending up great clouds of dust and cinder. Desiccation vibrated in their sinews, destruction tingled in their molars. Finally, they stood breathing in a clearing of their own gleeful debris, no night breeze chilling them in their sweat. A supernatural stillness overtook them, the fear they had tried to laugh away.

Ray picked up a silvery shred of yucca skin and gave it to the baby.

Ig said, “What is?”

“I told you,” said Luz, starting back toward the road. “A very bad omen.”

—

In the womb of a dream Luz is hiking along a rocky ridge with William Mulholland and Sacajawea through no country she’s ever seen, and though Mulholland has on inappropriate footwear and spiny somethings are everywhere, they are making good time. There is a tang of frost in the air and in the ravine below tremble the heads of plum-colored cottonwoods. Mulholland, his Irish Rs bubbly, is talking up home birth, a position Luz supports, though she also has a little devil in her, a little devil who lives in her throat, who makes a hammock of her hyoid bone, the only bone in the body that connects to no other bones, said her homeschooling anatomy coloring book. This devil, suspended in his web of ligaments anchored distally to the tongue, says, “It doesn’t add up, Willy,” and Mulholland says, “I invite you to look at the facts. We rank fortieth in the world in infant and mother mortality. Behind Cuba!” Luz has no hat on suddenly, and the tree-size lilacs in the ravine are swooning, swooning. Sacajawea is a bronze statue on her back and on Sacajawea’s back is Jean Baptiste, stillborn, marbled with blue. Willy Mulholland is saying, “Hospitals are designed for death.” Willy Mulholland is saying, “Septic! Septic!” Sacajawea’s bronze body scorches — what’s become of that frost tang? In the ravine there is a creek running with shreddy brown blood and Willy Mulholland is saying, “Isn’t it amazing what a little light can do?”

—

She woke near dawn, the car stopped and Ray gone. Ig’s seat was empty, too. Luz found Ray filling the gas tank with Ig on his hip. Luz offered to take her.

“She needs to be changed,” said Ray, handing her over.

“Are you stinky, Ig?”

Ig said nothing.

“Be careful,” said Ray again. Luz turned to walk around the front of the car and stopped. Up ahead, maybe twenty yards from the nose of the Melon, the road disappeared. Luz squinted in the dim—Crow’s-feet! screeched a makeup girl who prescribed ground pansies with garlic juice for Luz’s eyebags. Powdered horsetail, fresh yeast dissolved in boiling spring water for these nasty blackheads. Ten young, fresh nettles to drink up all this oil. Pick them away from the highway! If you would only practice the merest self-care you wouldn’t be in this chair for so long.

Luz approached the nothingness where the road ought to have been, turning to put herself between Ig and this void. A massive pit, perfectly round, walls sheer and plumb, like a cork had been popped from the earth, except on the lip where huge slabs of asphalt had cracked and threatened to slide off like melted icing. She could not convince herself to seek out the bottom.

“What are we going to do?” she said.

“Lon said this would happen,” said Ray, who smelled of gasoline. “He said there’d be trails.” He pointed to the side of the road, at the improvised detour of other Mojavs, then took Ig and changed her. Luz fetched a clean shirt from the front trunk, one Rita had contributed, with a choo-choo grinning from the chest.

The tire-wide ruts led them worming around the sinkhole and back to the road. They rejoined the asphalt and soon left it again where another cavity had engulfed the highway. Reunion, separation. Hello, good-bye. The pits were growing, it seemed, for they were off on the trails for miles at a time and even the trails encountered other chasms, detouring the detour. Lonnie’s map lay useless on the dash. They needed only to go east, to get to I–15, Lonnie had said. I–15 would take them into St. George. No longer than a day, Ray said he’d said. But also that it would depend on the trails. Keep heading east. East was all. But without the sea, Luz had lost what little bearings she had. She would have liked to check with Ray — wanted him to say This is east in his surest voice, the voice that made things sound truer than they ever were in her mind. But they barely spoke as they drove, waiting for a trail to swerve back to where the road might be, a trail trampled by people who, for all they knew, died in its blazing.

Instead of talking, Luz opened a plastic barrel of chalky peppermint puffs that Ray had stolen on one of his projects, her favorite kind: innards airy and white, red-striped husks with sugarsnow inside. Ig saw the candy and dropped her tortoise into the canyon between the car seat and the door, grunting. Ray frowned but Luz passed her a candy anyway. “At least take the wrapper off,” he said. “She’ll choke.”

“I was going to.”

“I don’t see how.”

Luz’s technique was to pop the candies from their wrappers straight into her mouth, then imprint her front teeth into the mint before shearing off segments in good-feeling planes. Ig’s technique was to hold the mint globe in her mouth for an alarming while then spit it out, softened, and roll it around between her hands and along her bare chest and in her hair until she was wet and pink and her fingers webbed with sticky, sugary spittle. For every mint she passed back to Ig, Luz ate ten or twelve. She could not stop. Each shearing brought with it a cold-hot release, like glaciers shedding into the sea, and the sensation lured her back for more. She stuffed the wrappers in the ashtray but the ashtray got full and then wrappers would leap from the tray on the wind and whirl around the cab like locusts before zipping out the window, which annoyed Ray, so Luz let the clear, crinkled wrappers fall to the floor at her feet, where the wind was unable to lift them.

The trail, unfurling for miles now, agitated Ray. “We have to get off this,” he would say. “This is not going to get us there.” There was a small sea of cellophane at Luz’s feet now, moving like the heat lake ever wiggling on the horizon. Luz went on shearing, grinding, building up little deposits of mint in her teeth.

Finally, they found asphalt again — Ray exhaled with relief as the tires started their even, mellow whirring. The candies were gone and Luz was left with sores on her gums and wrappers crinkling beneath her feet and the realization that she had not offered Ray a single one.

Ig grunted for another.

“No more,” said Luz. “All gone.”

Ig demanded with a whine.

“No more, Ig. They’re all gone.”

Ig considered this, looked Luz straight in the eye, and began to wail.

“Here.” Luz leaned back and retrieved the tortoise from the floorboard. “Ig, here. Look, Ig. Look.”

Ig bashed the tortoise in the head, sending him back where he came from. She bellowed, shrieked.

“Where’s her nini?” Ray asked the rearview. Ig’s face was red now, slick and horridly disfigured by her screams. He reached behind his seat, feeling around for the nini, and the Melon surged hungrily toward the soft, bankless shoulder.

“Jesus,” shouted Luz, reaching for the wheel.

“I got it. Find her nini.”

Luz groped along the baseboards and under Ray’s seat. She forced her fingers into all the spaces in the car seat and beneath it, Ig screeching and slapping at her all the while. Luz snatched one of the child’s hands out of the air and leaned in toward her small, lumpy, snot-smeared face. “No, Ig. No hitting.” Ray watched in the mirror. Ig’s eyes dilated with shock — shock and fear, surely — then squinted in resolve. With her free hand she smacked Luz in the face.

You cunt, thought Luz. She captured Ig’s other hand and held them both in a sticky nest. She squeezed, hard, hard enough that it felt good. “No,” she said. “That is not okay.”

Ig’s face fell to sorrow then, genuine wound and heartbreak, with real tears springing to blur her gray eyes. She pulled her hands away and covered her face with them. She sunk her head, ashamed, and wept.

Luz went to stroke her head but the baby recoiled. Her cage of a body was trembling, seizing where Luz touched her. “I’m sorry,” said Luz, her own tears springing now. She unbuckled the car seat and, with much effort, lifted Ig from it. Ray started to speak but stopped. Luz took Ig onto her lap, limp and burbling softly. She held the child to her, all shame and need. Then, in a gesture of pure grace, Ig put her spindly arms around Luz’s neck. Luz cupped her hand to the back of Ig’s large white head and whispered love and apology and contrition and affection into her neck.

The Melon slowed.

Luz looked up. Before them the road went on, did not slide like melting icing into an interminable pit. It went on, on and on east to St. George, to Lawrence and Savannah, where Ig would grow up, maybe saying, I was born in California, maybe one of the last, onward into the fine future, leaving behind the starlet and Lonnie and Rita and John Muir and Sacajawea and the photographers and the nettles and the Nut, except this road — which was to lead them to… to what? Kudzu, maybe, and Spanish moss; hurricane season and whatever the Outer Banks were — this road went onward and buried itself beneath a thick tentacle of sand stretched out from the dune sea.

“Fuck me.” Ray whapped the steering wheel. “Sorry, Ig.”

Ray turned the Melon around. “We don’t have the gas for this,” he said to no one. They doubled back, then Ray pulled off onto the trail from where they’d come. This forked off along a barbed-wire fence to a washboard cattle trail, which veered south and threatened to shake the Melon apart. All the while the dune lorded over them, in front of them and behind them, to the east and to the west, somehow. A passively menacing sight and Luz could not take her eyes from it. No more than a day, Lonnie had promised, but it had been two and they were farther than they’d ever been from anything.

They took a bald dirt track eastish. Promising for miles, until it was bisected by an ancient gully, its bed loaded with head-size boulders. Ray skidded the Melon to a stop. “We won’t make it,” he said.

He looked as if he might cry, or shatter the too-close windshield with his hand. Ray’s deflating faith was terrifying. Disbelief was Luz’s way. Or rather Luz believed only the most absurd Disney fantasies — the canyon menagerie, the Hollywood escape — so that their failure to materialize was proof that all things would always fail to materialize. She could certify sinkholes, arsenic poisoning, a world of hot undrinkable brine. But where her mind was miserly, Ray’s heart had room for all things, all modes of being, for water and for the promises of coins. He was, she realized, the essential opposite of her father, whose meanness and fear she’d inherited, though none of his industry. How sustaining it might have been to have that room, to not be ever at capacity. The ultimate project: to believe. That way, when the day came — through some fermentation of will and time and miracle — when the three of them emerged from this desert and Ig plumped and spoke and lined her dolls along a windowsill and asked, “Where did I come from?” faith would surely, if Luz could begin to cultivate it now — no, cultivate was not the right word. One didn’t cultivate faith and one did not cultivate anything here, save thirst and thirst and insanity. But if she might have somehow by then made room in herself, might have evicted the photographers perhaps, erased the year she probably should have followed her agent to New York, the year she was twenty-two but writing seventeen on all her forms, faith or belief might have let her respond, without saccharine or strychnine, “God gave you to us.”

“We can make it,” Luz said. She cajoled Ig’s limbs through their straps and buckled the apparatus over her despite the child’s whining. “Go,” she said, “before she has another meltdown.”

Ray nodded. The Melon plunged into the wash, the three of them lurching within. Rocks pinged violently up into the undercarriage. The Melon’s European engine whirred as her wheels spun frantically in the detritus, then caught, miraculously, ejecting the car up and out of the wash. Ray and Luz cheered. Ig cried until Luz freed her and reinstalled her on her lap. Luz held Ig, smelling the slight scabby smell of her head as the trail dipped dramatically and the desert scrub shrunk away and the trail went bankless, stretching now through a vast blinding rockscape. Luz had never seen anything like the craggy bleached white rocks rippling along the side of the trail, like water froth made inanimate, capped here and there with daubs of brown.

The sun was at its perfect apex, which it seemed never to leave. Beyond them, the blurry summits of the dunes in the distance blazed as if they made their own light. Down and down they sank, and the blanched, calcium-crusted oven of the valley broiled. Luz remembered something from her father’s idea of school, stacks of outdated trivia cards skewered on rings by subject: the lowest point in the US? Badwater. She was drinking more than her share.

She helped Ig drink, too, though still she spilled. “I’m good,” Ray said too pleasantly when she offered. Soon, Luz had to pee.

“Low on gas anyway,” said Ray, chewing at the skin beneath his nails. They were facing south now — she was almost positive — though they did not acknowledge this between them.

Luz set Ig down so she might waddle around, burn off some energy. “You have her?” she confirmed, fearing the little one impaled by the jagged rock pinnacles jutting skyward in crags like parched coral. And like something once alive, the rocks crunched under her feet, more delicate than rock ought to be. She squatted, hanging her head to look between her splayed feet. She grasped a spire for balance, prepared for it to burn her. But instead, the spire snapped off in her hand. She caught herself and looked to the crushed filtrate glittering uncannily. Teeny honeycomb crystals in her palm. She peed and watched between her legs in awe as her near-brown urine melted a tunnel in the rock. She finished, shook her rump in the air diligently and on her walk back found a pure white fist-size crystal. She licked it.

“It’s salt,” she said, marching clumsily back to the car. “It’s all salt. Ray, taste.”

Ray had opened the hood of the Melon and was leaning inside with his shirt off, as if the little coupe was politely eating him. Ig was stooped in one of the ruts of the trail, collecting little somethings in her hand. Luz approached Ray with the rock outstretched but he did not look to her. In the dark shadow of the hood his back was angry — cords in his neck and throat pulled taut, the flanks spread across his shoulders drawing his scapula up around his ears. Obviously not the time, and she congratulated herself for realizing this. She would go show Ig instead. But before she could turn and leave Ray to his trouble, whatever it was, a scent dizzying and unmistakable confronted her: gasoline.

She covered her mouth with her free hand, tasting somewhere beneath her dread and horror the salt residue there. “What happened?”

“Gas tipped over. When we went through that gully.”

She put the salt crystal to her side, not sure whether to drop it — too melodramatic — or hold it until it dissolved in her fist. “Jesus.”

“The lid was off.”

Their last stop. She’d pried the plastic cap from the Sparkletts bottle and whiffed from it so as not to accidentally fill their drinking jugs with gas. She’d congratulated herself, scooting the gasoline aside and reaching for water instead, silently commended her own prudence while neglecting to replace the cap. Now, a clear, greasy crescent of the fluid swayed in the once-full bottle where it lay on its side, scarves and baby clothes and adult clothes soaked, the carpets glistening with fuel.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Me too. That was our last one.”

“What do we do? Turn around?”

“We’ll never make it through that gully from this side. Even if we did.”

“So, what? Keep going?”

“Maybe there’ll be a road.”

“How far can we get?”

“Not far.”

Then what? no one said.

—

They went on, the journey a stillborn they had to birth. The Melon’s steering wheel was a simple chrome circle — surely blisteringly hot, though Ray said nothing — with another half circle of chrome upturned inside it like a smile. The speedometer, notched with kilometers, was one eye and the other, a little smaller, was a clock stuck near three thirty. Onward they rolled, no need for speed now, through the salt fields, quiet except for the crunch of the trail and Ig whispering her Ig language. The steering wheel face grinned at them idiotically, maniacally, while Luz and Ray silently watched its third eye, the gas gauge, tick nearer and nearer the orange hash marked R.

“What do you think that stands for?” asked Ray after some time.

“Does it matter?”

“I’d like us to explore it.”

“Are you doing the thing where you ask questions just to be talking?”

“Yes.”

She sighed. “Refill.”

“Reserves,” he said.

“Replenish.”

“Rejuvenate.”

“Regenerate.”

“Regurgitate.”

“Reinstate.”

“Reject.”

“Restore.”

“Rejoice.”

“Reconnoiter.”

“Rescue.”

“Residue.”

“Roam.”

“Rome.”

“Romans.”

“Romance.”

“Remnants.”

“Run.”

“Rest.”

The salt rock was still in her hand somehow, but the salt fields were behind them, and Luz did not notice when they left them and so she did not get to say good-bye, and wasn’t that her shallow, selfish way? Before them was the dune: magnetic, candescent, on three sides of them, as consuming as sky. The needle leaned on R, now engorged with denotation. The trail narrowed. Shallow, boiling pools came up on either side, their waters fluorescent yellow, stinging to the eye. The smell of rotten eggs seeped into the car.

“That color,” said Luz. “Look at the color, Ig.”

“Ig, Ig, Ig,” said Ig.

“Mine tailings,” said Ray. “Sulfur.”

In the sulfur pools squatted slick, bulbous mineral hives, steam surging from their slit openings like eyeless worms surfacing, belching mustard gas into the air. The thick rankness carried Luz to her father’s living room, where she was drinking a smoothie made from fruit powder — some powder was caked at the bottom and if she put her straw too deep she’d sip up a mealy mouthful. Her father with a bolo tie and too much skin for his face held a glowy yellow specimen in his palm and said to a room of grown-ups, This is Satan’s little stocking stuffer. This is how he tells you he’s a-coming.

“Brimstone,” Luz said to Ray. Together they knew the names of everything.

The Melon lurched once, twice; something knocked around inside, then stopped. And then, casually, as if it weren’t pinpointing the specific patch in a field of poison where they would die of thirst, the car began its final, quiet, excruciating coast.

Ray got out. Luz did too, as if there were something to be done. Ig whined after them and Luz climbed into the backseat to free her. From there she heard it, a sharp, wet bark, then another. She started and looked through the filthy windshield to Ray, pacing up and down the trail, his long legs stabbing berserkly away from the car and back again, his body atop them a live wire, convulsing, seizing, his hands clawing at his red face, wet somehow. (Spit, tears.) He screamed again, a pinched shriek like a mutt beneath a car and with it more spittle flinging from his lips, and then again, this sound slower, seeming to come from deep within him, a tremor traveling up his racked torso and bursting from his mouth. His feet skidded from beneath him and he collapsed on his back in the dirt. He lay there, trembling. The man with the specimen would have called it a possession, and Luz would have, too. A possession by rage and fear and profound, unyielding despair at this most inarguable failure.

Ig was still in her seat, silently shaken. Then she began to cry. Luz lifted her, jouncing and cooing, and walked with her away from where Ray lay in the dirt, his chest heaving, making scary murmuring sounds. Ig wanted down, then wanted to face-plant into the lovely toxic shore beyond the trail, so Luz squatted down and wrapped her arms around her. The child leaned into the hug, and what a tremendous satiating feeling that was, better than clean water.

When they returned Ray had collected himself, risen from the ground and was now leaning against the open trunk, folding the gasoline-soaked clothes. “Did she pee?” he asked.

Luz lifted Ig and sniffed her rump. “She’s good,” she said. “She wants you.” But Ray went on, folding the gas-smelling clothes. Making piles. When the clothes were folded and sorted he lifted Lewis and Clark and Sacajawea and Francis Newlands and William Mulholland and John Wesley Powell from the starlet’s leather satchel and stacked them beside the clothes. He would not look at them. Luz was beginning to think she’d never known this man and never would.

“Is this clean?” he asked, holding a supersaturated cobalt scarf with golden links of illustrated chain strung across it.

“What are you doing?”

He had a project, a plan. He tied the scarf loosely around his neck. He put his half-full jug in the satchel, and a dirty T-shirt and three cans of tuna.

“What are you doing?” Luz said again, though she knew now. “Stop it.”

“Come here,” he said to Ig, and she did. He held her and squeezed her and she let him. He kissed Ig on her head. Again and again he kissed her. Luz wished he would stop, and that he would never stop. He tried to pass the child to Luz, but she refused.

“I don’t want you to go,” she said.

“It’s gonna be fine. I’m just going to get help.”

“Where?”

He kissed Ig again. It was horrid, his lips hesitating on her feather-soft hair the worst of omens. “It’s gonna be fine,” he said again, though it would not. “I’m just going to go ahead to a road and find someone, get some gas and get us out of here.”

“There’s nothing out there, Ray.”

To Ig, with his high, soft Ig voice, he said, “I’m going for a walk now. Just a little walk down the road here.”

Ig said, “Road here.”

“That’s right,” he said, passing the child to Luz. “Go to Mama.”

Luz took the girl on her hip.

Ray fastened the satchel. He was doing penance for the AWOL thing. He was going to leave her alone to watch their child die, to prove what a good man he was.

“We’ll go with you,” she said.

Ray stroked Ig’s head. “It’s not safe. She needs shade. Water. We can’t carry enough.” He let Ig make a fist around his index finger. “She’s too delicate. She’d slow us down.” It was unclear whom he was talking to.

Ray kissed Luz then, kissed her as if he were embarking on his morning commute, as if he were the manager at one of the burnt-out banks along Wilshire. “Please,” said Luz. “No.”

“Listen,” he said, trying words on the wordless. “I don’t… You won’t… I’m sorry. It’s just…” He squeezed Ig’s calf and shouldered the satchel. “Get her out of the sun, okay?”

“Please no. Please! I can’t do this by myself.” She wanted him to say, Sure you can. He used to be so good about saying what she needed to hear.

“You don’t have to,” he said.

“No,” she said.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Take more water at least,” she said through a thick sob. “Fill your jug.” She reached for the Sparkletts barrel, nearly full of water, and tugged it to the edge of the trunk. Then, epiphany.

She could not lift the barrel with Ig in her arms, and everywhere there was to put her was scalding or venomous or glistening with gasoline. She pried the plastic cap off with her free hand, saw herself tipping the whole heavy, sloshing aqua of it, spilling the only water they had onto the dry crust of the trail. Water came in three lethargic glugs, instant mud spattering against her ankles.

“Don’t,” cried Ray, righting the bottle. He grasped her wrist and pried the plastic cap from her hand. He shoved the cap back on the barrel. Between them the water disappeared into the ground. Whispering now, he said, “Don’t you fucking dream of it.”

She might have tried again — wanted badly to, wanted badly to be capable of that. She wanted worst of all to press a cold pint glass against his neck and ask him if he remembered his longboard, the two of them leaning back and riding it down Canyon Drive. Ask him to help her once more onto the handlebars of his liberated mountain bike and ride them both down the center of PCH, helixing through rivulets of melty tar, him swerving, putting little phantoms in her heart, so that he could whisper I got you.

Ray tugged the scarf up over his mouth and nose. Against the infinite cobalt of the silk his eyes were colorless, clear, already gone. “Don’t cry,” he said. “I’ll be right back,” he said, though he would not.

—

The light went on forever out here, and so it was a long, long time before he disappeared. “Where him go?” Ig asked a few times, dry-eyed. Luz was the only one weeping.

“To get help.”

“Elp?”

“Help.”

Horse and wagon part.

Luz knew enough to stay in one place. That was the thing lost people never did but she would do and they would be rescued because of it. “It has nothing to do with inertia or helplessness,” she told Ig. “Or fear.” And to prove it she took the girl on slow walks in one of two directions: back, in the wake of the Melon, the way Ray’d gone, or forward. They paced the trail so ceaselessly and so slowly — Ig was ever distracted by a clod or a rock — that Luz might have forgotten which way was which if not for the Melon gazing blankly ahead. As they walked Luz watched the horizon, too, watched it until it went meaningless, until she could no longer distinguish the valley floor from the dune field marching across it, nor the smeary peaks of the dunes from the white sky. At home base — this she called it for Ig’s sake, somehow — she thought to pinch the starlet’s clothes in the rolled-up windows, but even in the shade the car became an oven, so she rolled them down again.

She opened the trunk to check the Sparkletts barrel, then conferred with the stopped clock on the dash. She promised Ray and Colonel John Wesley Powell that she would adhere to a strict regimen: a swig for Ig every hour, one for herself every three.

Dawn and dusk they could move finally. Diurnal as Muir’s mammals, they ventured out walking or embarking on a project. She stacked her biographies in the driver’s seat. She swept the peppermint wrappers from the floorboards. She removed Rita’s car seat and set it in the road carefully, as though she might return it one day. Ig had tortoise Ig and her Russian nesters and free rein of the backseat. Luz read to her and Ig parroted some words: Axe. Beaver. Shoshone. Rapids. Fur. River.

Luz vowed that they’d get a good nap routine going. That’s what the creatures here did, yes? She’d read something about lizards sleeping in the shadows of barbed-wire coils. Owls burying themselves in the sand. She took the corner of a scarf in her mouth and sucked until it was wet, then ran it along Ig’s hot neck. She fanned the girl with books. Still, the child was the color of the mountains from the starlet’s balcony, the color of flames and waiting cinders. She had heat rash in the crook of her legs and rosy polyps speckled across her crotch. Luz taped the soiled diapers into dumplings and tossed them way out into the sulfur pools. When some unseen tide brought them back, she practiced not acknowledging her severe and persistent preference to be the first of the two of them to die.

Ig did wilt into a nap sometimes, but Luz could not get her eyes closed all the way. When she did manage, Ig burst into her dreamlessness, lurching Luz into consciousness only to find Ig asleep, a cracker in each fist. The child detested protein, was surviving on starch and salt. Luz slurped sardines, spines and all. She drank the oil. The water she saved for the baby. She let her own saliva puddle in her mouth and swallowed it, trying to coax her brain back from the sunstroke on which it was so hell-bent.

The water, she knew, was trying to drive her mad. It was important to maintain the upper hand. She resisted checking the trunk when she could, which she often couldn’t. When she did open the trunk — because she thought she’d heard the jug fall, because it had likely been an hour — she braced herself, and still the level was always lower even than she’d feared. Many times, Luz felt compelled to dump the last of it so the goddamned waiting would be through.

When the Melon’s doors got incredibly heavy she left them open, even though Ig might tumble out and swan-dive into the stinking chemical lake. There was no breeze. The mustard gas from the vents expanded as released. What was it her father said about sulfur? When you smell sulfur, you know Satan has been coming round. Billy Dunn worked on oil platforms in the Gulf of Mexico and sometimes, he said, they drilled too far and very suddenly the platform might fill with that rotten egg smell and that was, he said, brimstone coming straight up the pipeline from hell.

When she poured the last rivulet of water into Ig’s sippy cup the quickness of it shocked her, though the shock registered somewhere behind the stabbing sensation in her eyes and the hot, constant pulse inviting her to ram two sticks deep into the soft spots behind her own earlobes.

The nights were terrifyingly beautiful, stars gaudy and tremendous, a dense and blazing laceration of them bisecting the black dome crosswise. Sacajawea would have known the name of them. The white sands of the dune fields caught the moonlight and held it. It was impossible to think these had always been here. Stars fell frequently and Luz watched for them, replaying Ray’s return in her mind, for she’d been told as a girl that the thought thought the moment you spy a shooting star always comes to be. It was a risky strategy, for her mind would move without her permission from Ray bouncing down the path in a Red Cross truck to Ray facedown and bloated in the sulfur pools. There he was one night when a falling star kept falling in a long line across the valley floor, fell and became a car on the road.

Luz sprung from the Melon and screamed at the car—“We’re here! Here! Here!” But the light continued on its path and kept on even when Luz remembered the horn. Meep! Meep! Meep! cried the Melon in the desert. Meeeeeeep! it said, and Ig woke and started to cry and Luz screamed all her voice away and all three of them were doing their part though the light was gone, and had been gone for some time.

After, she held Ig in the passenger seat, soothing her and staring at the stopped clock, waiting to see if she could feel the moment it was right.

It was the next morning or the next — time was getting shifty, smeary as the summit of the dune sea in the distance, but the two events abutted each other psychically, to be sure — when Luz spotted a dark shape floating in the sulfur pool: a bighorn sheep, bloated, its horns sawed off, though bighorns were extinct. It floated, swaying slightly in the brine. Its hoofs had been sawed, too, and there were bloody stumps where they should have been. Luz watched it a long time, Ig indifferent until Luz started tossing clods of dirt at it. Ig joined in then, selecting a clod, and then flopping her arm near her head, sending the clod into the dirt at her feet or sometimes straight up above her. She was ambidextrous, and smiled smugly when one clod finally plopped into the pool. When Luz landed sweeping underhanded arcs on the creature’s neck and taut, distended belly, Ig said, “Again,” and Luz obliged. “Again,” Ig said, “again.” Luz let herself hear, “Omen.”

“That’s right,” Luz said.

The bighorn was gone in the morning, and so was the island of diapers, and Luz had to tamp down her own tardy sense of abandonment. Ig did not cry anymore, which was not good.

You can hear them screaming, her father said, the demon pleas for mercy coming up the pipe. Maybe so, because Luz did hear things at night, or felt them. Rumblings. The ground rolling beneath her. Once, she felt something pressing on her chest and when she opened her eyes a cloudy green light quivered in the sky in front of the Melon. When she shifted in her seat, it zipped away faster than anything of this world could move.

Friends, her father was saying, and he had so many friends, have you ever sat yourself down on the porcelain throne to answer nature’s call and been engulfed by the smell of rotten eggs? Sulfur! Gastrointestinal brimstone! A portent from the demons living in your rectum!

Day, night, another day. Day. Day. Day. Why was there so much more day? Why were the nights not cool anymore? Luz asked, What season is it, Ig? Ig answered or didn’t. The child lay silent on the floorboard with the tiniest nesting doll on her bare chest, her scalp blistered and bleeding, and when had that happened? Light, she thought she heard the nameless baby who was not a baby say. As in, Let there be. And there was. More than enough light. Enough light. Enough with the light. Luz was light, she was light-headed, light within light, her head hollow as any yucca carcass, shriveled as a blueberry, filled only with hot, stupefying light she could feel ricocheting mercilessly inside. It was the last thing she felt.