The Remarkable Journey of Coyote Sunrise: Chapters 4–10

He made himself right at home, Ivan did. He slept wherever the heck he felt like and whenever the heck he felt like it. He roamed and rambled around the bus, sniffing and investigating and generally just being adorable.

She was long and sturdy-looking, with a handsome hood sticking out in front of her like the prow of a boat. Yager was not one of those flat-nosed buses.

I can personally vouch that it is a fantastic reading chair—soft enough to lean your head back and relax, or big enough that you can lay sideways and drape your legs over one of the arms if you feel like it.

In front of the shelf was the couch, a giant, cushy flower-print number. It was ancient and threadbare and most of the springs had been broken since the ’80s.

The first time Ivan tried to settle into Rodeo’s lap while he was driving, Rodeo made a big deal about pushing him off and griping about it.

Later, though, I looked up from where I was reading and saw Ivan curled up in Rodeo’s lap, eyes all closed and happy, with Rodeo’s dirty fingernails scratching at his head. I wanted to jump up and gloat about it, but I knew better; I’d won a battle, but it was best to hold off ’til I’d won the war.

Ivan soon found his favorite spot for when we were on the move: He stretched out right up on the dashboard, pressed up against the windshield, basking in the sunlight and lazily looking back and forth between Rodeo singing behind the wheel and the world blurring by outside the window.

We’d had a fine night, singing together by a campfire with Rodeo strumming away at his guitar and me at my ukulele, soaking in the coolness of the night air and the spectacle of the stars shimmering above us.

The thing was won and I knew it right then, and it was only a matter of waiting for the odometer to make it official.

We’d taken our time that day, not really racking up the miles. Stopped for a long lunch, dawdled in a tree-shaded park, pulled over for a swim in a muddy river.

I looked out of the side of my eye at Rodeo, who was still sitting there all nonchalant, one hand draped over the steering wheel, the other picking at something between his teeth.

The sparrow was a pretty little thing, with bright eyes and a sweet nature and the prettiest song you ever heard. The crow, though, he was an ornery old cuss.

Rodeo took another swallow of his root beer, and Ivan chose that opportune moment to come toddling up with a yawn and hop up on Rodeo’s lap.

Rodeo didn’t even look down, but he scratched gruffly at Ivan’s head and kept talking and didn’t shoo him down.

“So one day, old Crow sees something down there on the ground under the tree. It’s...It’s...a french fry.”
“A french fry?” I asked dubiously.

And that sparrow? Well, she was something else. All heart, that one. And she got right up under big ol’ crotchety, broken-winged Crow and she beat her wings something fierce and at first nothing happened, but then Crow, he started flapping his wings, too—best he could, anyway—and with the help of that remarkable little sparrow, darned if that old crow didn’t fly again for the first time in a long time, right up into the branches of that tree.

I steered clear of the kid-crowded gravelly beach full of splashing swimmers, knowing Ivan wouldn’t appreciate all that ruckus and horseplay.

I jutted my chin at her book lying in the bushes.
“Whatcha reading now?” I asked her, and she answered, “Anne of Green Gables,” and I said, “Oh, lord, I love Anne of Green Gables!”

Fiona and me mostly just gabbed about books, but we also covered other important topics like favorite pizza toppings, the worst songs on the radio, and national politics.

“I just can’t imagine,” her mom said, her voice faltering.

“Yes, ma’am. That there’s Yager. Built to carry up to fifty-six children and a driver, but we’ve retrofitted her, of course, and taken out most of the seats.”

We’d driven late the night before and I’d just reluctantly woken up from an afternoon nap, so I was dead on my feet and yawning when I managed to find a woman with a cell phone she’d let me use.

“What?” My question came out as a raspy croak.

I’d taken to sending pictures of Ivan to Grandma from time to time, like postcards. “He’s grown a ton since the last you saw. He’s not hardly a kitten anymore at all. He’s tall and slender and regal and all kinds of smart. You’d love him.”

Her voice droned on while my mouth went dry as day-old powdered doughnuts.

I think she was a bit startled by my panicked shout, but I wasn’t in any state to be all that tactful or diplomatic.

I think she was a bit startled by my panicked shout, but I wasn’t in any state to be all that tactful or diplomatic.

I looked down and stomped out the smoldering cigarette with the sole of my bare foot.

Dead Dreams were a thing for us. It was an acronym. When one of us—and let’s be honest, it was usually Rodeo—got a strong, undeniable hankering for something and it just couldn’t wait, we called it a D.E.A.D. Dream, a “Drop Everything and Drive” Dream.

Dead Dreams were a thing for us. It was an acronym. When one of us—and let’s be honest, it was usually Rodeo—got a strong, undeniable hankering for something and it just couldn’t wait, we called it a D.E.A.D. Dream, a “Drop Everything and Drive” Dream.

There were some songs sung and a lot of coffee drunk and a ton of miles covered and three days later ol' Rodeo was noshing that taco and rolling his eyes with pleasure.

I spent the next hour or so on the couch, hunched over our wrinkled and crinkled old highway atlas.

I made sure to grab a seat by the window so I could see Yager, then took a gander at the menu.

I sat there, chewing and pondering and wishing I was old enough to drink coffee.

I swallowed the fries and grimaced.
“Man, those are salty,” I complained, looking around for a glass of water.

And I tend to like folks who eat nothing but a milkshake for dinner. I think it really says something about their openness to life and their general philosophical outlook.

I roused a distinctly grouchy Rodeo and poked him into a bleary stumble down the bus steps and into the dusky light of the parking lot with plenty of repeated promises like “I got someone you gotta meet,” and “It’ll be worth it, I promise.”

I roused a distinctly grouchy Rodeo and poked him into a bleary stumble down the bus steps and into the dusky light of the parking lot with plenty of repeated promises like “I got someone you gotta meet,” and “It’ll be worth it, I promise.”

Rodeo was still Rodeo, though, and he wasn’t the type to be inhospitable.

“Okay,” Rodeo agreed with a dazed squint. Something else I’d learned through the years is that just-woke-up Rodeo is crabby and irritable, but woke-up-about-two-minutes-ago Rodeo gets pretty darn compliant.