Once she was actually in the park, the traffic increased, and she wound up a mountain with a surprising diversity of trees—plenty she didn’t know but some she did; she had been making an effort, after all. Sumacs, walnut, willow, pine. And sycamores, with their golden bark, still dropping yellow leaves. Towering rocks jutted out of the mountainsides and caves; patches of lichen on rocks glowed in startling colors.

A shady trailhead caught her attention; there was only one car parked there, an old Subaru, older than hers even. She was disconcerted to see a man standing by it, but breathed easier when she saw he was with a blond curly-haired kid, maybe around eight, which, as everyone knew, was the Most Perfect Age.

“Hi, New Mexico,” the kid said as soon as she got out of the car. “I’m Lulu from Seattle and we just got done hiking.”

“I’m Ammalie,” she said, glancing at her license plate, cursing herself for giving her real name.

“Emily?”

“No…uh…Ammalie.” Still, she couldn’t stop herself! What an idiot she was! “It was the most interesting thing my parents did.”

“Ammalie. What’s it mean?” Lulu bounced from foot to foot, her blond curls bobbing with each bounce.

Ammalie slung her day pack onto her back, an indication that she needed to go. She didn’t want to converse with anyone, and if she did, she wanted to encourage low-hanging conversational fruit, which meant not revealing anything. “In German, Ammalie means work, which yes, is what I’ve done my whole life. But in Scots Gaelic, it means water. Which is what I’m doing now. Moving like water.” She said it happily and offhandedly, but as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt a sting in her heart, which was followed by a cramp in her side. Water. She’d brought him water.

“Do you have kids? Do you have a husband?” Lulu was blurting out questions nonstop while the man was loading the car. “What’s your dog’s name?”

“One son. Powell. He’s in college. Well, he’ll soon be back in college. Maybe. Lady Shackleton, that’s the dog’s name.”

The man turned around and raised an eyebrow. He was athletic and handsome and looked about seventy with blue eyes that really did twinkle. Ammalie immediately got the sense that this guy was happy; his eyes and his aura radiated humor and joy. Maybe he was a Buddhist monk. Maybe he was on magic mushrooms. “A bunch of explorers,” he said. “Powell, after John Wesley?”

She raised an eyebrow back at him. “Why, yes.”

He looked down at Lulu. “Powell was that field naturalist who scoped out the Grand Canyon on the first raft trip down the Colorado River. Well, the first trip we know about. That I know about. Surely Indigenous people did it too, and we need to remember our history has been incomplete. But what a crazy trip! All sorts of mishaps! They barely made it out alive. And Shackleton too! Nearly died. Exploring can kill you! Or nearly kill you!”

Lulu sucked in her cheeks and scrunched her nose. “But we’re exploring.”

He nodded. “But safely, kiddo.”

Ammalie was delighted by the exclamation-point energy that this man clearly had zipping around in his soul, and decided a simple conversation would do no harm. “My husband was a fan of Powell,” she offered. “He was just back from New Zealand and was in his Adventurer-Obsession phase. Scott, Shackleton, but most of all, Powell. As I’m saying this, I am realizing they were all men. There need to be more women explorers.”

“Well, wasn’t Ammalie Powell’s wife’s name?”

She was impressed. “Close—it was Emma. And his sister was Nellie.”

“Like ever, they were probably the unsung heroes behind the hero.”

She snorted. “Exactly. Women always become invisible.” She winked at Lulu. “Never let that happen to you.”

He reached out his hand. “I’m Dan.”

“My grandpa is a bird-watcher,” Lulu piped up as she hopped around.

“Birder,” Dan corrected. “Since so much of birding is actually listening! Sometimes there’s not that much watching going on at all.” Then he cocked his head and made an exaggerated stance with his arms spread wide, as if praising the forests. “Hear that?”

Ammalie listened to a bunch of chirping.

“That’s a yellow-eyed junco!”

“I hear it!” Lulu cheeped herself.

Dan looked crazed with delight, one eyebrow quirked. “Did you? Do you? Hear it?” And though she was not sure she could distinguish one sound from the other, she closed her eyes and tried. They listened for a while, and she opened her eyes to find Dan’s eyes lit up with some deep delight as he gazed at the trees.

She said, “Um, hey, maybe I can ask you a question? What are birds doing when they rub their beak back and forth on a branch?”

“Feaking. All birds do it. Cleaning their beak.”

“Clark’s nutcrackers, their beaks look like they’ve been dipped in raspberry juice,” Lulu said, confidently. “But they might change the name. Because bird names are always changing—people don’t realize that—and this time it’s because some of those birders were racist.”

“But also because…?” Dan prodded.

“Because DNA and stuff and knowledge evolves. We shouldn’t be afraid of change.”

“Exactly.”

“Grandpa, do that thing where you make the noise.”

“Pishing!” Then Dan did exactly that—making a pishing sound with his lips, over and over, much longer than Ammalie thought he might, and Lulu whispered, “The birds will come in to see what it’s all about.”

Sure enough, a few birds fluttered overhead, including a small one with some yellow that flashed by. Lady also ran over and sat below Dan, clearly enchanted by the noise as well.

“A painted redstart!” Dan gasped.

“That’s awesome,” she said lamely, glancing up. “I was just reading about them.”

Dan was doing a happy dance, silent but with glee, and she was delighted to see anyone showing such…exuberant joy.

“New Mexico, that’s where we’ll head after Arizona,” Dan said, glancing at her plate. “I’m getting Lulu out of the house for a month so her parents can work, and doing some homeschooling from the road, and we’re having fun, aren’t we, now? You just gotta adapt.”

Lulu bent down to pick up a rock, which she held out to show Ammalie. “My mom has cancer so she’s super immune compromised and I always seem to get sick so I can’t be around much, and even if I was home, I wouldn’t go to school, because maybe that would kill her, and anyway, I like online school. And she’ll get better.”

“Oh!” Ammalie said, startled by all this sudden rapid-fire talk. “I’m sure she will. What a grand adventure you’re having.”

“This place feels like a big soul-sigh, if you know what I mean. What happened to your husband?” Dan asked it nonchalantly, but when she faltered, he said more gently, “You referred to him in the past tense.”

“He died.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and seemed to mean it. “How long have you been alone?”

She bit her lip, a bit annoyed. Here was a human who was maybe getting too real. “A little over a year and a half.”

Dan tilted his head. “Good for you, getting out. Alone. Travel is simply good for the soul. My wife has been gone for about five. I miss her. But life is short! We must embrace it all!” Then a weird thing happened: He winked at her.

Her brain did a slow rumble. Had he flirt-winked at her?

Meanwhile, Lulu was rambling off mountain names—Hieroglyphic Mountains, Cave Creek Mountains, Chiricahua Mountains, isn’t that a cool name, Coronado National Forest, Coronado was an explorer!—but Ammalie’s brain was still registering the wink, glancing at Dan, catching his eye, witnessing a raise of the eyebrows now, intentional.

Yes: It was that sort of wink. That sort of eye-catch. An invitation to be sure.