People were tired. People were lazy. People liked to see what they wanted to see.

She slipped the New Mexico plate into her backpack and left.

When she walked to her car, she glanced at her own plate, just to be sure what sort of screwdriver she’d need when she found herself alone.

—

On her last stop before Key Two, she pulled up at the Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge exactly on time. It was again l’heure bleue, the hour when the sandhill cranes and snow geese would land for the night in the lake. She’d planned and executed this important moment like a pro, and it was perfect exactly in the way it had once been unperfect: A decade ago, Vincent and she had missed a morning liftoff and the evening landing on the trip they’d gone on specifically to see such a sight in Indiana, him taking his time leaving the hotel room in both instances, slowing them down on both ends of the day. She had hated him then, believing his puttering had been on purpose, though he denied it. She considered now that he likely had slowed them on purpose, perhaps as a way of silently getting her back for some slight. He could be like that. He had often wanted to control the pacing of things, would do subtle things to exert his control, but always in ways so small that it was hard to exactly define, or fight against, though still, she hadn’t spoken to him the entire way home. He had known, after all, that there’s only the morning liftoff and evening landing, and timing is important, and he managed both times to be “running behind.” Small moments of selfishness. Or flat-out unkindness.

She breathed out, tried to let it go. She’d been as disappointed then as she was delighted now. She climbed out of the Grey Goose and bundled up in coat and mittens, leaving Lady inside, and stood in awe along with a few other tourists at a magical moment. She tried to form the words that captured it:

A multitude of snow geese.

A cloud of snow geese.

A blizzard of snow geese.

A slow-moving tornado of snow geese.

A fucking amazing amount of snow geese.

The birds came in groups, circling and landing in the lake. Her mind scanned itself, looking for words to explain it, but it was impossible. It was beyond words. And then it was over. She stood quietly, taking in the surroundings of lake and carcasses of cottonwoods and leafless trees. A few smaller groups of snow geese landed, and then a smaller number of sandhill cranes did the same, sounding like garbling frogs or something very ancient. Then the tourists left. Then she was alone, standing in the near-dark.

She breathed a sigh of accomplishment, of wonder, of joy. She’d wanted to do something, and she’d done it. Simple as that. She got back in her car and drove down a nearby dirt road and parked on the side and slept in the back of the Grey Goose in Fluffiest Red, with Lady curled at her feet. Though she was crampy and her period had started yet again and she was cold, she could feel the surge, a cloud, a blizzard, a happy tornado circling in her heart. She was lifting off herself.

PART II THE SECOND KEY ICE AND WATER

CHAPTER 8

Thar she was—the old trailer, battered and alone, one window covered with a black tarp undulating in the wind like an eyepatch gone haywire. “Ahoy, ahoy,” Ammalie murmured, struck as ever by the weird things that came out of her mouth, seemingly on their own. Since never had she ever uttered the word ahoy.

But that’s what she felt like: a pirate caught in a terrible storm. The seriously rutted dirt road required steering to the far right, or the far left, or just gently entering the potholes and washouts straight on, cringing as she waited for the scrape of metal on rock. Excitement surged up her throat, though—her body might be bucking on the dented road, but her heart felt like that of a kid waking up to the best birthday gifts ever, because here was the solitary white oval of a vintage travel trailer with a faded turquoise strip and a faded red lightning bolt, straight out of the fifties and cute as could be.

Next to it sat a picnic table and beside that, a clump of trees she knew to be desert willows because of the educational signage at the last rest stop. A line of bushes spread west to east, meandering along what must once have been a creek bed, and to the right, toward the setting sun, the dry creek led to what appeared to be a low rocky canyon with some trees she couldn’t identify. Everything in the three other directions was simply endless, endless, endless rolling land, made extra-endless because of its pastel dullness, and extra-extra-endless because of its sparsity, which made the whole landscape appear as if it was barely hanging on to existence as it clung to the sky. This was what was meant by desert. Not the sand dunes kind of desert with camels walking through, but the desert of the American West, the desert of Arizona.

“Freaking bizarre as Mars,” she whispered, and Lady whined, and the Grey Goose jolted in agreement. She tried to find the words to name what this landscape even was: yellow-pink rocks and yellow-pink dirt, basically, but what else? Dry scrub, dry yellow grasses, dry bushes, tall yuccas that rose to strange heights and reminded her of women with flowing hair and arms waving and warning her away.

She parked far from the trailer, so as to have the Just looking around, my husband stayed here once, la-la-la look, as opposed to the I’m invading your place aggressiveness about her. She felt calm and collected, but upon climbing out of the car, a yelp of primal fear came hurtling out of her mouth before she could stop it. Cripes almighty! What was that thing? Some creature was cowering in the brittle brush and mesquite, staring at her with grumpy round black eyes, and then she realized there were more pairs of black eyes, which caused her to screech again.

What the hell? Her brain scan resulted in nothing. She couldn’t place these creatures at all. Didn’t something like this live in Africa? Or India? Raccoon monkeys—was that a thing? She had a momentary wave of confusion—where was she? Did she have Alzheimer’s?

She watched them until they reluctantly wandered off, sometimes throwing annoyed glances over their shoulders and eventually disappearing toward the rocks and trees, as if they were riding off into the sunset. Ammalie clicked her tongue in consideration of the situation while the Grey Goose clicked noises as the engine cooled. Her yelp seemed to be still echoing. She hadn’t uttered a sound like that—of pure surprise and fear—in a good long while. Or maybe ever. That fact made her snort, which made her laugh softly, perhaps out of nervousness, or perhaps because she was now living a life with moments worth yelping about.

She picked up her phone to google “raccoon monkeys in Arizona” but saw that there was no service, so instead she let Lady out of the car. The dog tentatively trotted around, sniffing, but often looked back to Ammalie for reassurance. Inspired by Lady, Ammalie sniffed too. The air smelled like…well, desert. Like dried grass lit by late afternoon winter sun, like cottonwood leaves, like skin. Maybe a hint of creosote. But something sweet too, and she had the sudden memory of the smell of her father’s cherry tobacco and how they would walk the dirt alleyways of Chadron after dinner together, him smoking a pipe, and her heart pinged with nostalgia.

Well, she’d made it. She leaned against her warm car, biting her lip, pulling her jacket around her, considering. In front of her was her second key: a trailer named Dart. It was not shaped like a dart at all, but an oval. It had faded red and turquoise paint on battered white-and-black lettering that spelled out Dart in the lower left. And that black distinctive eyepatch for a window. Perfect. Her eyes rested on the small rocky outcropping to the west, since this was the only place anyone could hide and not be seen, and was the only place of interest, really. But it was quiet and had no signs of life, nor did the rise of land beyond it. If she squinted, she could see a blur of gold at the base of the distant mountains—the leaves of willows or sycamores or sumacs or cottonwoods perhaps, evidence of a much lusher place. She assumed that was Cave Valley, another place with a confused identity—was it a cave or a valley?—but regardless, she knew it was famous for its biodiversity and wildlife corridors. She had read on the road signs that it was a strange confluence of several ecoregions and the recipient of more moisture than the rest of the dry state.

And this? Well, this was not that. This was on the edge of that. This was the Badlands. Funny how two opposing landscapes could be so near each other. And also, this was the opposite of the treed-in safe feeling of the Colorado cabin. But maybe here she was equally invisible? Just a different kind of invisible? She was glad for Lady’s presence—the dog perhaps had been a gift from the universe, and she reached out to gently scratch her fingers through soft fur until she became clear on two things: She’d give it a try despite being spooked, and she’d prove to herself that she was just fine with being unseen.

—

Her plan was to just sit for an hour and observe. Look for tire tracks or signs of life either up close or far away—cars, flashes of light from houses, hikers, anything. It’s true there was no house in regular sight, but with her binoculars, she could see what might be a cluster of trailers or small homes to the east, and beyond that, occasional glints of light that told her it was the rural highway she’d taken to get here.

A roadrunner with a lizard in its mouth ran by—that was startling! Lady didn’t even notice, being occupied with sniffing and wagging her tail at the base of Dart—but Ammalie stared after it, mesmerized. Vincent had told her about those—roadrunners—when he’d returned to Chicago with a key and some photos of this place. He’d put the key in a padded envelope and asked her to mail it on the way to work. He’d not wanted to mail it without checking the postage, unsure, because it was a key, after all—and she’d agreed, since she drove right by the post office on the way to Avogadro’s Number. For some reason, she really wasn’t sure why, she’d committed one of the few dishonest things she’d done in the marriage—she didn’t mail it, then lied and said she had. She just didn’t feel like it, and surely the owner had a spare, though she wondered later if it had been some passive-aggressive thing, to punish him for going on this trip without her. Or maybe she was just a key klepto. Or maybe she was just lazy.

Why had she been so curmudgeonly? Or actually, had she been the exact opposite of that, but her emotions had no place to land? Had she grown curmudgeonly because he had been that way to her? Was she really such a child, with a Well, I’ll show you sort of attitude? But it had hurt her, when he’d planned the trip with a friend from Dark Sky and never even considered asking her along. Maybe because he assumed someone had to stay home with Powell, or maybe because he wanted to do things solo, or maybe because the lodging was not up to snuff. He’d complained about it, even, about how he had the “most remote, most rustic accommodations” of anyone in the stargazing group, an old trailer tucked off in the flatlands, far from the observatory, requiring that he drive on a terrible road to meet the others, but it had been free, a gift from some Dark Sky appreciator, and the money saved had been enough for him to get the flight to Phoenix and make the trip happen in the first place. She remembered feeling a mean kind of glad that he’d had to suffer a little—he who had increasingly been checking out of her and Powell’s life.

She had no guarantee it would be empty, though Vincent had remarked several times how remote and rough it was—a broken hinge on a window that made it hard to vent the place, a bathroom that was…an interesting experience, a composting toilet. The man who owned it lived in Texas and once or twice a year came out here in his new fancy RV, but he stayed on the other side of his fifty acres, the prettier side with trees and a stream and where he had hookups. He offered this place for free to stargazers and volunteers, though it was so inconvenient that Vincent had wondered if anyone really ever stayed there at all. “It would be a great little escape place for emergencies,” he’d said. “You know, like if zombies attacked, this would be an ideal shelter. We’ll definitely go there if zombies come.”

He’d been right about that. Zombies would never bother with this place.

She pulled out a turkey sandwich and ate while leaning against the car, absorbing the buzzing space of vastness while Lady galloped around, sniffing wildly and, at one point, letting out a bark, which was the first time she’d heard Lady bark since the day they’d met. A weird bird, one that looked like a cardinal but was not, startled and flew toward Ammalie from a perch in the willow, perched again, then flew over her again, clearly curious about her. Funny, that. How wild creatures watched humans more than she’d ever realized.

—

The key turned, the door swung open, and she was struck with the idea that probably a key was not needed at all, that a simple strong pull would have opened the door. Comically, this made her feel unsafe, since she was the one breaking in, and she had to snort with amusement as she stood at the threshold, taking it in. She took a step forward but kept her leg out so that Lady could not enter—she had dirt on her paws, after all. Dart was not as broken-down as she had imagined—someone had been keeping track of it, which made her feel vaguely uneasy. To her right, there was a mattress with a light blue sheet and blankets folded at the base, with the exception of a small quilt, tossed haphazardly and touching the floor, so she instinctually rearranged it while looking out the large window above the bed. Directly in front of her was a small kitchen; to her left a little sitting area that could function as another narrow bed. There was a small shelf with books about stars and the local area, and there were also various items lined up—binoculars, a headlamp, a lantern, some beautiful rocks.

At the back of the trailer was a small closet, intended as a toilet, she supposed, but she didn’t want to deal with whatever that entailed, so she went outside and squatted and peed where Lady just had, then went to rotate the propane lever on the tanks outside, went inside, and turned on the heat valve, which was right inside the door. It started to click; hurrah for propane, hurrah for heat! She closed her eyes, Thank you, Texas Guy.

She looked for a fridge, but there wasn’t one—there was just a shelf where a fridge might have once been, and a red cooler sitting on the floor below it. Damn. She’d been hoping for some sort of electricity, whether solar-powered or wired or just magically available, as it often seemed to be. Now that she was fully in Dart, she could smell the faint acid smell of mouse piss, and she was surprised, actually, that there wasn’t more of what she’d always called “mouse dirt.” Indeed, the cleanliness of the trailer surprised her. It really wasn’t bad.

Vincent had mentioned there was no running water, so she had bought and filled four five-gallon containers, which took up all the available space in her car. She knew also that there was some emergency-use water underneath the trailer, but since the containers had probably sat for a long time, and likely frozen and heated, Vincent had not wanted to use them and neither did she, microplastics and all. They would, however, be fine for a hot bath, which she wanted desperately.

She lugged the drinking water out of her car and plonked the big containers on the picnic table and kept her eyes on Lady, who had been venturing farther and farther from the trailer ever since their arrival. It was good for dogs to run, she figured, but Ammalie wanted to keep her in sight. She bit at some dried skin on her lip. “Okay, it’s not going to be easy,” she said to the weird bird, who was still hopping around. “But I probably won’t die, right?” To quell her anxiety, she sat on the picnic table, got her journal from her backpack, and made a list: Things That Will Be Difficult and I Need to Overcome Like a Badass Explorer Would:

The Space: Cramped.

The Safety: But who’d arrest me for breaking in here? What criminal would be wandering around out here?

The Cold: How bad will November be?

The Electricity: Specifically, food preservation.

The Water: How long will it last? Not long. Trips to town required.

The first two items were psychological and wait-and-see situations. The third, fourth, and fifth were biological and practical, and after some time, she’d know the answer about temperature, preserving food, and how fast she was going through water. That was the point of true exploring. Leif Erikson and Vasco da Gama and Robert Scott had to figure all this out too—as did every woman in noncivilized areas, which was a shit-ton of women, and she had a grocery store an hour back! And she could always just leave! It’s not like she was going to perish.

Ammalie scratched Lady’s under-neck. Perhaps there was some sort of KOA campground to stay at once in a while—to shower, fill up water jugs, stock up on ice? Also, she practiced what she’d say if anyone discovered her. Sure, she’d play the sympathy card—her husband had come here alone, had recently died, she was in grief, he’d always wanted to return some pottery shards he’d found here…But also, really, who would find her? She only knew of this place because Vincent’s file folder called Places to Go had a printout of an email sent from the owner long ago: Look for the big tree with a lot of bird feeders next to a white rock at the corner of a barbed-wire fence, head south for ten miles, high clearance such as a Jeep recommended, take left after the fireplace ruins, head south again at the rutted road marked with blue stake and the dead willow…

Well, she had promised herself a true adventure, one that pushed her limits, so here she was. Success! And indeed, when she glanced westward, a gasp swooshed from her lips. The setting sun lit the valley in shafts of light, and the bottoms of the clouds were pink-orange swirls. She held up the binoculars and could see that in the distance were indeed the cliffs of Cave Valley—she recognized them from a photo. A true oasis. She put the binos down and watched as the clouds grew upward in great puffs, their lower halves increasing in color in funky, psychedelic ways. Fucking magic. If she’d been a woo-woo sort of person, it would have seemed they were billowing to welcome her to this home.

—

Hot water. Such a simple delight. And the work of procuring such a basic substance was its own delight. She’d boiled water in three pots on the trailer’s stove, carried the hot water outside, and added it to cool water in a tub she’d placed near the picnic table. All the water came from dusty plastic containers under the trailer, which were heavy and cumbersome and icky on the outside, but she felt strong and capable inside and out. All the hiking at the Colorado cabin had put her in better physical shape than she’d been for a while—and there was something enabling and pure about taking care of a basic need without the help of much technology or conveniences. Or a man.

Inspired by a photo she’d found on a website for broke college students, she’d bought a high-grade, thick plastic storage tub back in Chicago, and she’d even practiced bathing in it in her kitchen, with bubbles and a candle to boot. Sure, she couldn’t sink back like in a real tub, and instead had to sit upright with her knees pulled up, and draining it had been a drag, though here she could just tip it over. On the trip, it had served double duty as her main storage container for nonperishable food—crackers and cans of soup and dried fruit—and so now all those items were stacked on the picnic table so it could function as her bath.