Matt

Not because nobody's looking.

There's a very specific kind of chill that doesn't have anything to do with temperature.

I felt it then, standing there between racks of Pringles and off-brand energy drinks.

He paid for his stuff and left without another word.

When I got back to the truck, I told Ryan and Miguel about it, expecting them to laugh.

Miguel did, but it was more of a, that's creepy laugh than what an idiot.

Ryan just shrugged.

Old timers love to freak out tourists, he said.

Probably got a nephew in search and rescue, wants to keep them busy.

Then he added, besides, we're not going that far.

We'll be fine.

We weren't tourists, but I didn't argue the point.

I shoved the weird interaction into the mental folder labeled Random Desert People and focused on the road.

That folder didn't stay closed for long.

We left pavement an hour later.

There's a certain satisfaction in that moment when the asphalt ends and the dirt begins.

The Tacoma ate up the washboard sections, dust trailing behind us like a comet tail.

We followed the main BLM road for a while, then cut onto a narrower track that led toward a low mesa and a dry wash Ryan had picked out on satellite imagery.

"'You see this bend in the wash?'

he said, pointing to a printed map he'd marked up.