Matt

Then the truck bounced, the angle shifted, and the spot was empty.

I didn't mention it.

If this were a movie, this would be the part where we find the main road blocked by a mysteriously fallen boulder or something.

Reality was subtler.

Ryan navigated by the GPS on the dashboard and the physical map on his lap.

The sun had climbed higher, and the haze that had softened its edges earlier was burning off.

Heat shimmered on the horizon.

Dust plumes from our tires trailed behind us, hanging in the still air.

We passed the junction where we'd turned left the day before.

Ryan slowed, checked the map, and turned right instead.

Main road's this way, he said.

Once we hit it, we're golden.

Five, six miles of dirt, then pavement.

No one argued.

We drove.

The landscape rolled past in monotonous waves, low ridges, stretches of flat, scattered scrub.

The road dipped into shallow washes and climbed out again, never more than two faint ruts in the sand.

The GPS showed a little gray line, our route, inching toward a thicker line that represented the main road.

After about 40 minutes, we crested a small rise, and I saw something ahead that made my stomach lurch.

The rusted sedan.