“No log ins,” grunts Avon, wrapping a light bandage around his hand.
Simon opens the phone, finds Instagram. He is looking for a specific account, unconnected to any of them. In Marfa they devised this plan, that if any of them were separated they should post a photo on @bassethoundsrule. He searches for the account, finds it, scrolls through the filler images—Basset hounds at the beach! Basset hounds in the woods! Basset hounds in clothes!—until he finds a photo of a walled estate. A teenage Black girl stands in front of it with a handwritten sign. The sign is blocking her face. The girl is rail thin, wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, her arms like twigs.
The sign reads BASSET HOUNDS LOVE PALM SPRINGS!
Simon backs out of the page, erases the browser history, then turns off the phone.
“I have to go to Palm Springs,” he says.
They are headed east toward Interstate 5. Racing back to the Long Beach airport, Girlie sees a Shell station, puts on her blinker.
“What are you doing?” Avon asks.
“We need gas,” she says, pulling onto the off-ramp.
At the pump, Simon and Story get out. Rose is asleep in the backseat. Avon goes inside to buy some supplies. Story stands on a strip of grass, staring at the sky. The smell of smoke from the east is overpowering.
“Are you okay?” Simon asks.
“You really want me to answer that?” says Story.
“No, sorry. That was—I’m an idiot.”
They stand together, watching traffic race by on the highway. Like everything else in the LA sprawl, the gas station has the air of urban decay. It is what happens when you take a beautiful valley and pave it, cementing even the river, then fill it with people without rhyme or reason, and finally neglect it all for decades, investing neither time nor money in its health or beauty.
“I had a sister,” Simon tells Story, “Claire. And she—died.”
Story nods.
“And then my parents just pretended she never existed. We didn’t talk about her. They put away her pictures, redecorated her room.”
Simon is still wearing hospital scrubs. He has no shoes on. Neither does she. He takes Story’s hand.
“I’m saying, I’m here if you want to talk.”
She nods, tears in her eyes.
“What do you want to do?” Simon asks her. “I could call someone, get you home?”
She doesn’t answer.
“I think Louise is in Palm Springs,” Simon tells her. “I don’t know about Felix or the Prophet. They were with me when I was—”
He pauses.
“You were with Louise and Duane though,” he says. “Did they—how did they get away?”
Story sighs.
“They had to pee, and I said I’d stay in the van near the radio. And then these cars pulled in, and this man grabbed me out of the car. They called themselves goblins.”
Simon nods. “It was an ambush,” he says. “The Wizard saw us. They were waiting.”
Story wipes her eyes as Avon exits the Q-Mart carrying two plastic bags.
“Why are they in Palm Springs?” she asks. “Louise.”
“I think maybe they found Bathsheba,” he says.
Avon, walking toward the car, stops. “What did you say?” he asks.
Simon turns. “No, nothing.”
Avon drops the bags. A can of Coke inside pops a hole, hisses soda onto the parking lot. Avon walks to them. “Did you say Bathsheba?”
Simon nods, looks at Story.
“We were—she’s our friend, her boyfriend’s sister,” he says, nodding to Story. “And we were—rescuing her when we were—kidnapped.”
“And her name is Bathsheba,” says Avon.
They nod. Avon thinks about that. What are the odds? And yet how many Bathsheba’s can there be in America?
“You said he’s your boyfriend’s sister?” he asks Story. “Who’s your boyfriend?”
“His name is Felix, uh, Moor with no e.”
Avon frowns. “Describe him.”
“He’s, uh, six foot, brown hair.”
Avon digs through his pocket, pulls out his wallet. Inside he finds a worn, folded photograph. He shows it to her. In it, Avon stands with two teenagers, a boy and a girl. The girl is barely twelve. The boy is probably sixteen.
It’s Felix.
Story’s eyes widen. “That’s—”
Avon blows air through his nose, marveling at the miracle of the universe. “His name is Samson,” he says. “Samson DeWitt.”
“No,” she says. “He’s—that’s Felix.”