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of Las Vegas showgirls in rhinestones and little else. The Cabazon Indian Reservation sign had been knocked sideways near one that announced the Colorado River Aqueduct. Cissy wondered if the aqueduct really had water in it. How could there be water under ground so flat and white and stony? A cloud of yellow dust rose, and Cissy’s eyes burned. She looked back at the shadowy basin where a pipe jutted out from the sand. People lived on the street. Some even slept in culverts. Was that where she would wind up? Sleeping in ditches with Delia and stealing hamburger scraps from the garbage cans outside McDonald’s?
    “So much desert,” she said. She could see her face in the sideview mirror. The whites of her eyes were crossed with tiny red lines like the map on the seat beside her.
    “Oh, this isn’t the real desert.” Delia skimmed sweat from under her eyes with her left forefinger. “Wait until New Mexico. That’s real desert. Saguaros and tumbleweeds. Every time I see those Roadrunner and Coyote cartoons, I think of New Mexico.”
    “I got to pee.” Cissy kept her eyes on the mirror.
    “Oh, for God’s sake, Cissy. It can’t be much more than an hour since the last stop!”
    Cissy turned to stare at Delia.
    Delia floored the gas pedal. “You can pee in Arizona, damn it. I’m not stopping again until we’re out of California.”
     
     
    A rizona was much like California, more wide-open baked desert landscape. But just off the road near Quartzsite there was a vast parking lot and a big aluminum sign announcing a rock market. The lot was bumper-to-bumper, and cars were parked all along the highway. Delia slowed and pulled into a Chevron station. She climbed out of the car, rubbing her back.
    “You can pee here,” she said. “And don’t go nowhere.” She limped toward the station with money in her hand.
    Cissy started toward the adobe walls of the building, shit brown and crumbly, with little bits of grass sticking out all over. Dusty logs protruded from the walls a few feet above the doors, some sporting faded orange pennants hanging limply from yellow plastic cords. A Coke cooler was sitting open and empty next to the bathroom door. Cissy held her breath and went inside.
    She was surprised at how clean the bathroom was. The sink shone silver and white, and the paper towels had green borders. A dark purple plastic vase contained a spray of paper leaves in autumnal shades of orange and brown. A bright poster for a kachina exhibit at the University of Arizona covered one wall. Cissy quickly went about her business and washed her hands, sniffing but not using the eucalyptus-scented soap on the counter. When she stepped outside, she saw Delia standing at the open hood of the Datsun with a mechanic who was holding the oil gauge and shaking his head.
    There was a loud pop, and Cissy turned to see a bunch of red and blue balloons tied to the Rockhound Camping sign, bouncing in the warm gusts that swept trash along the ground. The balloons were faded, though not so much as the blankets and tarps that shaded the camper vans. The desert was a place full of color, but it was a whole different palette from what Cissy knew, everything bright bleached to a smoky pastel. Cissy could see row after row of flea-market stalls past the vans. People moved through the dust as she watched. A few flat, seamed faces turned in her direction. Without thought, Cissy walked toward them. These were ageless people, tanned dark, with black or white or gray hair and ropy muscles on sturdy bones. Many sat on lawn chairs in front of mobile homes, behind card tables displaying dishes and strings of roughly polished rocks. Cissy stopped under a blue tarp shading a table stacked with glittery stones. She touched a strand of dark red.
    “Red tourmaline.” The woman’s breath smelled of anise and lemons. She grinned at Cissy, revealing big, perfect teeth.
    “Where do you get them?” Cissy could not imagine where all this rough beauty had come