indulged in a soft smile and a little bit of nostalgia. “Got lucky. The right people pounded on my door. You?”
“I’m too stubborn to die, I guess.”
His smile broadened. “I like the sound of that. You must make life interesting.”
“What can I say? Pure talent.”
She shifted her weight. Chris wanted to look up and watch her. Was she smiling? He heard the levity in her voice but didn’t dare move for fear of scaring her off.
“Chris?”
“Hmm?”
“I have books.”
He didn’t know which kept him silent—the glorious possibility of finding new reading material or the fact that she’d admitted as much. He knew a leap of faith when he saw one.
A wash of déjà vu slid across his line of sight. That dream.
He’d had a dream a few nights earlier, in which that moment’s pieces lined up exactly. Rosa standing, her hip at eye level. The night air. The rock overlooking the valley. And she’d mentioned having books. Then they’d fast-forwarded in that disjointed way dreams worked, with moments flooded by cloud. He’d seen himself jumping down from the rock, knowing stealthy violence had come to Valle—filthy men on foot.
Chris had awoken believing it a ridiculous farce, if only because no one had books. They’d all been used for kindling years ago. That one mistake had been enough for him to let the dream go.
But this . . . this was too strange. Looking out over the same desert, adrenaline surged like floodgates flinging open. He clambered to his feet. Rosa made a little yelp sound in her mouth and skittered back. Afraid she might fall off the rock, Chris grabbed her for the second time.
“What the hell—”
“Quiet.”
She twisted his thumb backward. “Let me—”
“Quiet,” he cautioned. “Do you hear anything? Out there?” He thrust his chin toward the empty night desert.
“Welsh, if this is some kind of game . . .”
He let go of her hand and stepped to the edge of the granite slab. The spiking dread beneath his sternum said they were in danger, just as he’d felt in that uncanny dream. But from where?
“Wait, you’re not joking.” Rosa joined him at the precipice. “Talk to me.”
So many sounds, when broken down one by one. Fiddle music that sounded like a lullaby. Breezes. His own galloping heart. Chris breathed through his nose to try to focus.
“Quit talking and let me listen.”
“Fuck off.”
“There. I hear it.” Chris froze, dead still, and Rosa took his cue. “Do you?”
“Hear what?”
“Engines.”
Had she been a woman prone to panic, she would’ve staggered. That was what he saw in the way her eyes flared wider than usual, the way her lips parted. Instead she seemed to gather into herself, concentrating as he did. Chris counted three of his own heartbeats for each second that passed.
“I don’t hear anything.”
“Engines,” he said again. “There, over that ridge. More than one. Diesel. Trucks, not motorcycles.”
Her nostrils flared on a sharp inhale. “Dust pirates?”
“Who?”
“Men who live in the desert. No families. No community. They venture into our territory to strike shipping trucks, but they don’t leave survivors. Lately they’ve been looking hard at Valle. Little strikes to gauge our defenses. Maybe they’re tired of roving.”
The engine noises cut off. Chris shivered. It wasn’t a relief that he could no longer hear them.
“Have they ever attacked here?”
“ Sí . But we make them pay for every step.”
“But you just grabbed a big haul, out there on the highway. Tempting.”
“The valley gives us the perfect position to see anyone coming—especially trucks.”
Chris vaulted down from the rock and turned to look up at her. “How many bravos do you think are sober and ready to fight? Right now?”
She flicked her chin toward town, then back to that southwest ridge. “We ration alcohol. Some men are always posted on sentry duty, and the rest would be ready in a minute. We always keep the Burning
“I’m too stubborn to die, I guess.”
His smile broadened. “I like the sound of that. You must make life interesting.”
“What can I say? Pure talent.”
She shifted her weight. Chris wanted to look up and watch her. Was she smiling? He heard the levity in her voice but didn’t dare move for fear of scaring her off.
“Chris?”
“Hmm?”
“I have books.”
He didn’t know which kept him silent—the glorious possibility of finding new reading material or the fact that she’d admitted as much. He knew a leap of faith when he saw one.
A wash of déjà vu slid across his line of sight. That dream.
He’d had a dream a few nights earlier, in which that moment’s pieces lined up exactly. Rosa standing, her hip at eye level. The night air. The rock overlooking the valley. And she’d mentioned having books. Then they’d fast-forwarded in that disjointed way dreams worked, with moments flooded by cloud. He’d seen himself jumping down from the rock, knowing stealthy violence had come to Valle—filthy men on foot.
Chris had awoken believing it a ridiculous farce, if only because no one had books. They’d all been used for kindling years ago. That one mistake had been enough for him to let the dream go.
But this . . . this was too strange. Looking out over the same desert, adrenaline surged like floodgates flinging open. He clambered to his feet. Rosa made a little yelp sound in her mouth and skittered back. Afraid she might fall off the rock, Chris grabbed her for the second time.
“What the hell—”
“Quiet.”
She twisted his thumb backward. “Let me—”
“Quiet,” he cautioned. “Do you hear anything? Out there?” He thrust his chin toward the empty night desert.
“Welsh, if this is some kind of game . . .”
He let go of her hand and stepped to the edge of the granite slab. The spiking dread beneath his sternum said they were in danger, just as he’d felt in that uncanny dream. But from where?
“Wait, you’re not joking.” Rosa joined him at the precipice. “Talk to me.”
So many sounds, when broken down one by one. Fiddle music that sounded like a lullaby. Breezes. His own galloping heart. Chris breathed through his nose to try to focus.
“Quit talking and let me listen.”
“Fuck off.”
“There. I hear it.” Chris froze, dead still, and Rosa took his cue. “Do you?”
“Hear what?”
“Engines.”
Had she been a woman prone to panic, she would’ve staggered. That was what he saw in the way her eyes flared wider than usual, the way her lips parted. Instead she seemed to gather into herself, concentrating as he did. Chris counted three of his own heartbeats for each second that passed.
“I don’t hear anything.”
“Engines,” he said again. “There, over that ridge. More than one. Diesel. Trucks, not motorcycles.”
Her nostrils flared on a sharp inhale. “Dust pirates?”
“Who?”
“Men who live in the desert. No families. No community. They venture into our territory to strike shipping trucks, but they don’t leave survivors. Lately they’ve been looking hard at Valle. Little strikes to gauge our defenses. Maybe they’re tired of roving.”
The engine noises cut off. Chris shivered. It wasn’t a relief that he could no longer hear them.
“Have they ever attacked here?”
“ Sí . But we make them pay for every step.”
“But you just grabbed a big haul, out there on the highway. Tempting.”
“The valley gives us the perfect position to see anyone coming—especially trucks.”
Chris vaulted down from the rock and turned to look up at her. “How many bravos do you think are sober and ready to fight? Right now?”
She flicked her chin toward town, then back to that southwest ridge. “We ration alcohol. Some men are always posted on sentry duty, and the rest would be ready in a minute. We always keep the Burning
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