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hoppers next time. They’ll give you away.”
    I have the little pack Uncle Cagney had carefully filled for me, and despite its small size, I am looking forward to taking it off. I stuffed too many of my treasures into this bag for a two-day trip. I swing my stick carelessly in front of me. It’s a wonderful piece; Dad carved it from a willow branch for me last fall on my eleventh birthday.
    It is late afternoon when we finally top the familiar ridge between the river Mar and our farm. Unbidden I think of how different this climb was just a couple of days ago, before Uncle Cagney came and our world broke. I hear the water from the pipeline trickling into the ancient wooden holding tank we use for irrigation. The water in the tank has a low hollow sound. I can imagine our fields and house, and wish Mom was on the porch, telling us to hurry up.
    “Uh oh,” says Tig. Before I can ask him to explain, I hear the shout.
    “There she is!” The thud of people moving reaches me. My heart is already racing. The smell of horses, strangers, and sweat reaches me. I hear the pounding of boots and the swish of dry corn stalks as someone runs toward us through the field. This is all wrong. I can’t move. I try to tell my body to act, but my muscles are frozen. I can’t even make my voice work.
    Tig grabs my leg with a claw. Feeling returns—sharp, painful feeling. “Let’s go!” he yowls.
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 5
 
    T ig rakes his claws across the bottom of my leg and pulls me out of my frozen stupor. I yell—I don’t know if it is because of the pain or confusion or fear. At least I can move.
    “Where?” I yell. Some part of my brain wants to know where to go—not home—away from the pounding shouts that are growing closer. Another part of my brain wants to know where Tig is.
    Tig answers both questions from behind me. “Follow my voice!”
    I spin around and trot toward the sound, my stick swinging in a low arc and one arm outstretched. The thuds behind me have left the swish of dry stunted corn and meet the crunch of gravel on the ridge. I tap forward.
    “Duck!” yells Tig. I know where we are and double over, still walking quickly, one arm raised to find the pipe I know is ahead. My hand finds the pipe, and I duck under, feel a rusted damp spot, and it is gone, behind me. My throat constricts. I taste dust. The ground away from the trail is rough under my feet. Tig is calling, “This way, this way,” over and over.
    I can’t make my feet move fast enough. I hear panting behind me. We’ve only traveled about two hundred steps. I feel the ground rising sharply. My stick jams into the sudden incline. I scrabble after the rush of gravel and constant calling of Tig just ahead of me.
    A rock under my foot gives away, and I fall. “Wait!” I pant. I’ve never been this way, but I feel the light, sharp lava rock pieces under me and I know we are headed directly toward an impenetrable wall of jagged red stone. The Valley of Fire.
    Tig yowls “Left!” He is just ahead of me. I turn left, and tap quickly ahead. My stick finds something to my right. I avoid what must be a large rock. I brush it on my way past. Sharp—part of the flow. We are close now. I want to scream, “Where are we going!” But there’s no time. Just move forward. To my left is a steep decline, jagged rocks to my right.
    I hear grunting behind me and the rush of lava gravel fewer than a hundred steps behind us. I almost fall. I catch myself and feel the slope turn down. I smell rotting water. The river! I do fall, on my knees. Then I am up, left hand extended, tapping, right hand on the ground, feeling. I crouch, crab walking as quickly as I can, using everything I have. The gravel pounds with heavy boots behind me. It won’t be enough.
    Tig interrupts from just ahead and to my right. “Don’t slow down, into the river, and go right. That’s upstream!” Despite the noise, the heat, the dust, heavy