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falling, and then we land hard, Miles on top of me.
    The cushion I made from the pillow and blankets breaks the worst of the landing, but my breath is completely knocked out, and it takes all of my strength to push Miles off me and sit up. Five heartbeats go by and then I am gulping in air.
    The plane is closing in—the sound is coming directly toward us. I scramble to haul Miles beneath the truck. His feet leave furrows in the dry earth. Scoot and pull. Scoot and pull. The truck sits high up on big wheels, giving me enough room to sit crouched over underneath it as I drag his body.
    My mouth is full of dust as I grasp Miles under his arms and give one last pull, then I clamber forward to hide my legs andfeet under the cover of the truck. The airplane is on top of us: Its insect whine fills my ears as it passes overhead and continues on southward.
    I lie for a moment, my chest rising and falling as I try to catch my breath. I cough, and my mouth tastes like dirt. I roll my head sideways to look at Miles, and there he is, inches away, his body turned slightly toward mine, arms limp by his side. His face is covered with sand, and there’s a large scratch on his forehead. He watches me with that wide-eyed look and then licks his dry lips. “Are you okay?” he asks.
    “Yeah, are you?” I ask, panting.
    “Of course I’m okay,” he says. “I landed with my full weight on top of you. I’m surprised you weren’t crushed.”
    I can’t talk, so I just shake my head as I close my eyes and press my chest hard with my palms. We are silent as the sound of the plane becomes distant and disappears.
    My breathing slows to normal, and my heart no longer feels like it’s going to explode. A sliver of pain shoots up the back of my neck, blooming poppy red behind my eyes. I’m going to be very sore tonight.
    “Juneau?” I hear Miles say.
    “Yes,” I respond, turning toward him.
    “You’re amazing,” he says, with an awestruck expression. “Trust me when I say you are, hands down, the toughest girl I’ve ever met. And I mean that as a compliment—in my most heartfelt please-don’t-hurt-me-anymore kind of way.” His teasing smile has returned, and this time it fills me with a happiness thatmakes me forget my aching back and mouthful of desert dust. This feels like complicity. Like we’re a team. Like we’re together.
    I smile and reach over to touch his hair. “I promise not to hurt you if you promise never to get shot again.”
    “Deal,” he whispers, and closes his eyes.

12
MILES
    WHEN I WAKE UP, I AM IN THE FRONT SEAT OF THE pickup, held upright by a very tight seat belt.
    Juneau stares intently ahead as she drives, and the gold of the starburst in her right eye flashes in the desert sun. Her finger-length hair is dusted with dirt, and stands up on end. Reddish clay caked on her arms has dried into a crinkled pattern. Right now she would fit perfectly into the postapocalyptic world she believed existed until a few weeks ago. Like Mad Max’s extremely dirty sidekick.
    I look down and see that I am shirtless, dressed only in my blood-spattered jeans and tennis shoes. I assume my shirt is too blood drenched to ever use again. I focus on my Converses and try to wiggle my feet. No go.
    “Where are we?” I ask, and Juneau jumps. My voice soundslike gravel, and I clear my throat and ask again.
    “We’ve been driving parallel to the Colorado River, and are about to cross over it into Arizona.”
    We pass a sign that says NEEDLES FWY and then onto a bridge crossing high over a wide aqua-green river. “How did I get in the car?” I ask.
    “I got the motorcycle ramp unstuck and used the winch to pull you in,” she says, keeping her eyes on the road.
    I watch as she expertly handles a pickup truck after teaching herself to drive barely a week ago. “Is there anything you can’t do?” I ask, only halfway joking.
    She considers. “There are plenty of things I’ve never done. Fly a plane. Speak Chinese. But nothing