"Don’t worry about him—he’s a local to the bone. I’m more likely to get lost or into trouble here than that kid."

"Case in point: stumbling upon a weird hippie girl who probably keeps a knife hidden in her sock."

"Still, if you want to come to my place, stranger, you’ll have to find your companion first."

"And what were you doing out here?"

"Playing hide-and-seek," Selena replied calmly.

"With who?" I tensed, half-expecting an armed gang to come charging out.

"Depends on the day," she said airily. "Today… you found me."

"Think I stepped on a snake," came Oscar’s voice as he approached.

The kid emerged from behind the rocks and glared at the girl:

"Selena."

"Heya, Ozzy!" she beamed. "Long time no see! How’s life? How’s your grandad?"

"Just peachy," he replied sarcastically, gesturing to his dirt-covered knees.

"Three set out at sunset toward the flaming mountains. They carried a map, a flask, and an age-old dream!" Selena laughed.

"Okay, now that’s just too much," I muttered, heading toward the motorcycle, eager to put distance between myself and this odd hippie girl. Dealing with the kid was hard enough as it was. "Let’s go, Oz," I said, handing him the helmet. He stared at it, alarmed.

"What a pity," Selena sighed. "I thought we’d spend some time together."

"We need to head back—it’ll be dark soon," I replied, trying to start the bike.

The engine sputtered pathetically, but the machine refused to budge.

"Perfect. Just perfect!" I dismounted from the lifeless hunk of metal and kicked it in frustration.

"Don’t tell me Kurt sold us junk," I said to the kid, who’d already taken off his helmet, clearly pleased by the breakdown.

"How should I know?" Oscar shrugged. "I don’t know squat about bikes."

"Or people," I grumbled. "You’re the one who told me to trust him."

"I said I didn’t want to walk back. The rest was your call."

I glared at Oscar, who was clearly mocking me—just like everything else in this godforsaken place—and let out a groan of exasperation.

"Since you’re not going anywhere, it seems, you’re welcome to come to my place!" Selena chimed in.

The terracotta leather boots touched down on the dusty ground, kicking up a small cloud of sand. Selena approached us with a smile, absentmindedly tucking a strand of her wavy ash-blonde hair behind her ear as she walked.

"You live in a trailer?" I stared in surprise at the small, light-gray van.

"I need to travel comfortably to the places I want to be," Selena replied, inviting us inside.

The interior was pure hippie-nomad perfection. Along one wall stood a narrow bed covered with a patchwork quilt stitched from mismatched fabrics. A similar rectangular rug—woven from coiled fabric scraps—lay on the floor. A wall-mounted shelf held a twin-burner gas stove and a tiny kettle.

Beneath the long window (which swung outward to form a makeshift awning) sat a table and a lumpy purple beanbag. Every inch of wall space was plastered with souvenirs and mini-signs bearing city and state names. Under the bed, I spotted a thick stack of letters tied with a black shoelace.

"Wondering what’s in them?" Selena asked, following my gaze.

"I don’t make a habit of snooping," I said, shaking my head.

"Yeah, right," the kid snorted.

"Generally speaking," I amended, remembering the ill-fated cigarette that nearly burned a house down.

"But I’ve always loved wondering what letters hold," Selena mused, pulling the bundle from under the bed. "Sometimes I reread my favorites—to feel closer to the people who wrote them."

"I’d rather just visit someone than endlessly write letters. Or reread them," I scoffed.