Across the Desert: Chapters 19–33

The walls do look crumbling and brittle enough to break apart and fall on top of us.

I gaze at the looming walls, looking for something I recognize, but maybe the canyon has changed since I last saw it on Addie’s video.

Then I spot an old gnarled ironwood tree growing up out of the path of floods—one of the only living things in all this crackled and crumbling gray.

Marty furrows her eyebrows. “You, Jolene, are not a bag of trash.”

The trail we’re following winds around a small mountain. It’s not terribly steep, but we’re breathing hard and sweating, barely able to speak from the exertion.

Along the edge of the path, the cliffside plummets about fifty feet to the desert floor.

My heart pounds with anticipation and hope. And sickness. And dread.

I remember the car accident. Even days later, there were traces of it—glass and other debris that got missed, scuff marks in the street and sidewalk.

We stand there in the middle of the scorching desert together, my crying the only sound for miles around.

I claw my way up the rocky hill, the blazing hot dirt searing my raw hands, cactuses tearing my legs, thorny trees and bushes snagging my torn and dirty clothes.

“We need to call now,” she says. “We don’t have a second of battery life to spare.”

“I’m so thirsty,” Addie says, barely above a rasp, like her voice is as sunburned as her skin.

“I don’t know how we’re going to do this with what water we have left.” Marty wrings her hands.

Addie puts her flaccid hands in mine, but she doesn’t have the strength to grip.

Barbed wire guards the opening, and a sign warns DANGER! STAY OUT! STAY ALIVE!

The way we have to hold her in a seated position over our arms like this is awkward and makes it difficult for both me and Marty to walk, especially as we maneuver through the narrow doorway.

My arms shake with fatigue, and as strong as Marty is, I can see she’s worn out and struggling to hold Addie.

But Marty and I are going to need the energy, so we eat quietly while Addie sporadically moans and grunts in pain.

We spread the wing fabric out and attach it to the bars with fabric strips, bolts, and the fabric repair glue we found in the tool kit. It’s a mess, and I hope the fabric stays in place. Then we work on making a wheel base for a stretcher, which we attach in the same haphazard way.

All this work distracts me from worrying about what’s going to happen, about whether Addie’s right about the trail. About whether I’ll be strong enough to pull her through the desert on this flimsy thing.

“I dare you to tell me what compelled you to come out here in the desert and fly the ultralight behind your mom’s back. Why was this so important to you that you would risk your whole life for it?”

I also want to hear the rest, even though I don’t necessarily approve of Marty’s prying with the condition Addie’s in.

“We’ve got to get out of here. She for sure has severe heatstroke, and she might even have an infection. She could become septic.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“She’s probably getting an infection in one of her legs, and if we don’t get her help soon, it can spread in her blood. If that happens, she could die.”

“It’s just birds.”
“Stupid quail,” Marty mutters, like it’s the quails’ fault for getting scared out of their hiding place by us.

Its thorns pierce my hand, and I stifle a cry.

I put my shoe back on and carefully slip one end of the sock around the cholla, the barbed needles snagging the fabric.

“I see them, too,” I say, my heart racing, and not just from dehydration and weariness and fear.

“I just kept focusing on taking one more step instead of thinking about how long we’d been going or had to go.”
“That’s probably a good tactic,” Marty says, sighing, her arms now wrapped around her knees.

Marty’s mom crosses her arms, taps her foot—typical angry parent stance.

Then she bursts into a tirade about Marty’s actions and leaving her grandpa’s without telling him and taking his car when she doesn’t even have her license.

Her eyes are red and swollen, her hair matted and tangled.

Mom looks totally appalled, her eyes darting to Mrs. Peterson.

sMarty: She drinks the last soda and keeps me up at night asking existential questions.
JoJo12: Your mom said I could have the soda. And I don't know what existential means!
sMarty: Do you think there are no accidents? How can I change the world? Can the world be changed? It's exhausting!

He has paper-straight brown hair parted in the middle and a smattering of pimples across his pale forehead.

JoJo12: School is school. I can tell some of the kids are kind of impressed when they see me walking to school with Marty, though.
sMarty: Yep. I exude coolness.