Matt

He scooped the bundle up with a flat rock and tossed it farther down the wash.

It hit the sand with a muted thud and lay there, a dark, lumpy shape against the pale ground.

Out of sight, out of mind, he said, dusting off his hands.

Let's get the fire going.

Sun's almost down.

I watched where it had landed for a second longer than I meant to.

As the shadows lengthened, it seemed to sink into them, like the darkness was absorbing it.

Then Miguel called my name, and I let it go.

I wish we'd taken that as the warning it was.

Night in the desert hits like a curtain drop.

One minute you can still see color, the subtle reds and browns of rock and dirt, and the next everything is either black silhouettes or gray smears.

The stars come on gradually, and then all at once, and the Milky Way looks fake, like someone smeared white paint across the sky.

We had the fire going strong by the time true darkness set in.

It crackled and popped, sending sparks up to join the stars.

We made burritos over the coals and drank cheap beer that somehow tasted expensive out there.

Miguel told a story about a co-worker who'd gotten lost on his way to the bathroom at a music festival and ended up sleeping behind a dumpster.

We laughed too loud, our voices bouncing off the invisible walls of the wash.

For a little while, it was exactly the trip we'd planned.

The first sound was coyotes, or that's what we thought.

It started as a distant yipping, a high, excited chorus drifting across the empty land.