I’m here.
And I search,
barely able to keep my eyes open.
And then
I
see
a
pulsing
in his temple.
A slow
pulse.
A barely there
pulse.
A nearly finished
pulse.
Am I imagining it?
No.
I push myself up and look
at my father.
Alive.
HOPE
I open Dad’s backpack
and scramble through the supplies.
Finding the canteen, I open it
with shaking fingers
and greedily guzzle, gulp,
choke myself on the warm water.
I have to force myself
to leave some for Dad.
I pour careful drops
on his mouth, but they glide right over,
pool on the ledge under his face,
and he doesn’t wake up.
I push the canteen aside
and continue searching through the backpack.
I find the lighter, but I can’t use it.
There’s nothing to light here on this ledge
except a few small twigs.
And the uprooted, dead tree
is too far away.
I pull out what I really need.
I don’t want to use it,
but it’s all I have left.
I don’t want to use it,
but I’ve reached my end.
I don’t want to use it,
but this thing
does not control me.
I know the risks
if I do this.
I know the risks
if I don’t do this.
I lie back and stare at the sky,
now shrouded in gray clouds.
I debate
what I’ve already
decided.
But it’s a losing argument.
There is only
one thing
that will draw them quickly.
One thing
everyone fears in the desert.
The planes are above the cloud cover.
They won’t see.
And even if there weren’t gray clouds,
I doubt they would see anyway.
What would it give us?
A small chance.
A short moment.
I have to give us a bigger chance.
A longer moment.
It could rain soon.
I am out of time
in every way.
They’ll be watching.
They’ll be on high alert
because of all the lightning.
I hope it won’t spread,
that the wind won’t carry an ember
up out of the canyon.
I hope they
see.
I hope they
come.
I hope they
understand.
I hope they
forgive.
But the most important thing is that
I hope.
And because
I hope,
I roll onto my stomach
on the sliver of ledge,
my knee screaming at me,
and stretch out my arms.
I hold the flare gun in both hands
and point it into the canyon.
I pull back on the hammer,
but it won’t budge,
and I worry that I don’t have
enough strength left
in even one finger
to do what I need to do.
I stare at the gun until I figure out
how to turn the safety off.
I pull back on the hammer again,
and it clicks into place.
I hold the gun once more
in both hands,
arms outstretched,
pointed at the dead, uprooted tree.
My finger trembles
as I squeeze
and press
and pull the trigger.
CLOSING
The gun blasts my ears,
blinds my eyes,
jumps in my hands.
I try to hold on to it,
but it slips from my fingers
and plunges into the canyon.
It’s gone.
I twist onto my side and once more
press my forehead to Dad’s,
my arm draped over him,
my ears buzzing,
dark smears across my vision.
I try to stay awake.
I don’t have the energy to look.
I barely have the energy to keep
my eyes open at all.
FIRE
And then
I smell smoke.
I hear crackling.
And I allow my eyes
to finally close
with the comforting knowledge
that I have set
that damn canyon
on fire.
MOM
Mom, Dad, me.
We sit around a smoking, crackling campfire
in folding chairs in the middle of the desert.
Mom wraps an arm around me to keep me warm
while Dad roasts us marshmallows.
He hands her one, and she pops it into my mouth,
so I don’t have to take off my gloves.
Dad pulls another marshmallow off a stick and says,
I had a dream I was eating a giant marshmallow last night.
Mom looks down at me, raises an eyebrow.
Handing her the marshmallow, he says,
When I woke up my pillow was gone.
Mom and I look at each other,
our mouths full of marshmallow.
I snort as she rolls her eyes and gives me her
what-am-I-supposed-to-do-with-him look.
Why did the elephant sit on the marshmallow?
Dad asks.
Mom chews her marshmallow, swallows it.
Why?
And her voice is like a beam of warm sunlight
in a cold, dark cave.
To keep from falling in the hot chocolate.
Mom and I giggle,
and the sound of her laughter is like
fresh water trickling through the dry desert.
She squeezes me to her, leans down, whispers,
I love you. I’m proud of you.
It’s real,
even if it is a dream.
It’s real.
CRESCENDO
The canyon winds
are blowing again.
The canyon walls
are vibrating again.
A deafening sound
fills my ears.
I squeeze my arm around Dad,
my forehead still pressed to his.
It’s okay.
Sand and pebbles break free
of the walls and tumble on top of us.
I’m here.
A crescendo builds
as the canyon threatens
to come apart around us.
Whatever’s coming,
we’ll face it together.
And then…
STILL FIGHTING
A crack in the darkness.
I look up
into the blinding light.
A whirring windmill
hovering in the sky.
The dark outline of a person
looking out from the helicopter.
I raise one
stained, thorn-filled, shredded hand
to show them
I’m still here.
I’m still alive.
I’m still fighting.
And then being lifted.
Up.
Up.
Up.
Out of the canyon,
toward the light,
in the middle
of a cold, dark desert night.
I put down my notebook and take a drink of water to soothe my throat, dry from reading aloud for so long.
Dad doesn’t speak. He’s been staring out the window, motionless except to wipe his cheeks every now and then, his left arm in a sling, draped over the couch’s armrest.
Finally, he whispers, “Thank you.”
I push myself off the couch and hop on one leg to my backpack. I slip the notebook back in and zip it up. “You’re welcome,” I say.
“I’ll…,” Dad says, trailing off.
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll have more to say later,” he manages to get out.
Dad grabs the keys while I put my backpack on, then we make our way out to the Jeep. With my leg in a brace and Dad’s arm in a sling, everything is a challenge for us. I clumsily flop toward my seat, and he nearly falls over, laughing, trying to keep me balanced with one arm. “We’re a sorry pair, aren’t we?” he says down to me.
I shake my head and smile up at him. “Nah. I don’t think we’re sorry at all.”
He’s still mostly quiet as we drive. It’s not far. We’ve made this drive many, many times.
Dad stops the Jeep and walks around so he can help me. After I get out, I reach back to grab my backpack and crutches.
“Do you want me to walk you up?” Dad asks.
I stare at the house. “No. I can do this on my own.”
Dad smiles, touches a lock of my hair, which I’d had evened out into a pixie cut. “I think you could do just about anything on your own.” He puts his arm around me and whispers, “Good luck.”
Dad walks back around the Jeep. He gets in, but he doesn’t leave as I slowly make my way on crutches up the familiar walkway, swinging my injured leg. The weight of the notebook in my backpack is heavy on my shoulder.
I think about how I used to believe my life would only ever have two parts: Before and After. Now my life has three parts: Before, After, and After After. I look forward to the parts still to come.
I lean on one crutch when I get to the door, trying to keep my balance. I reach one healing hand out and ring the doorbell.
After a minute, she opens the door halfway, a tentative look on her face. There’s surprise in her eyes, then sadness and wonder as she scans me over, taking in my short hair, the leg brace, the endless scrapes, scabs, and scratches slowly transforming into bright pink scars.
She sees all of it. She sees all of me. As she always has.
She opens the door widely for me now, and I hear Dad start the engine. The sounds of the Jeep fade as he drives away.
And Danielle lets me back in.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
On a blazing hot July day in 2017, my family and I ventured up to Payson to visit my mom and go hiking. We trekked through a canyon to a swimming hole called Water Wheel and had a nice time. Only a few days later, a large family from my hometown of Cave Creek visited that same canyon. A flash flood surprised the family, taking nine of them from this world. I’ve never been able to stop thinking about them, even though I didn’t know them. The loss is unfathomable to me, and so I wrote this story partly as an expression of my grief for that family, but also for everyone who has suffered great losses in the blink of an eye.
Thank you to my editors, Lisa Yoskowitz and Hannah Milton, for challenging me to write every scene, page, and line better. Thank you to Karina Granda and Pascal Campion for my beautiful cover. And to everyone else at Little, Brown Books for Young Readers who has supported me and my book—Michelle Campbell, Jackie Engel, Jen Graham, Stefanie Hoffman, Rosanne Lauer, Alvina Ling, Katie Boni, Lelia Mander, Sherri Schmidt, Christie Michel, Victoria Stapleton, and many more: Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
A good literary agent is invaluable, and I’m so grateful to my agent, Shannon Hassan, for always supporting me, listening to my many story ideas, reading everything I write (frequently multiple times), and helping to guide me.
Thank you to amazing middle-grade friends who read early drafts of the manuscript and provided valuable feedback: Jarrett Lerner, Sally J. Pla, and Heidi Lang. To the three best writing friends in the world: Stephanie Elliot, Kelly DeVos, and Lorri Phillips. And to Dr. Blasingame at ASU for supporting local writers and for supplying me with a constant stream of interns willing to do my bidding.
The only reason I have a job is because of the many booksellers, educators, and librarians who have supported me since my first book was released. Thank you for recommending my books to children. I can’t tell you how much that means to me.
Thank you to family members who have supported me throughout my writing journey: Peggy Williams, Becky Self, Jennifer Kindle, and my mom, Gail Daggett. To my three daughters for inspiring me to write stories about strong girls.
I couldn’t have accomplished what I have without the constant support of my husband, Zach Bowling, who takes care of our children and home while I chase this writing dream. Thank you, God, for all of it.
Sheli Walters
DUSTI BOWLING is the bestselling author of Insignificant Events in the Life of a Cactus, 24 Hours in Nowhere, Momentous Events in the Life of a Cactus, and The Canyon’s Edge. Dusti holds a bachelor’s degree in psychology and lives in Arizona with her husband, three daughters, a dozen tarantulas, a gopher snake named Burrito, a king snake name Death Noodle, and a cockatiel named Gandalf the Grey. She invites you to visit her online at dustibowling.com.
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