“Miles,” I say. “You are my oracle.”

His head moves slightly as he nods, a thick wave of hair tumbling off his forehead. “Yes, Juneau. I am your oracle.”

34

MILES

“HOLY CRAP, I FEEL LIKE I SLEPT ON A PILE OF rocks,” I say, crawling out of the tent and pressing my thumbs hard against my temples as the sunlight burns my eyes.

“Breakfast,” says Juneau, and shakes a box of Cap’n Crunch at me from where she sits next to the impeccably clean fire pit. I glance around the clearing. Everything’s been packed up, and the trunk of the car is open with our supplies stowed neatly inside.

“Does this mean we’re leaving?”

“Yep,” she confirms, and hand-feeds a piece of cereal to the bird, who stands obediently next to her like the freeloading fleabag he is.

I sit a few feet away and pour myself a mug of orange juice and take a sip. I glance at Juneau, and she looks away. There’s an elephant in the campsite, and it’s called last night’s kiss. But if Juneau’s not going to say anything about it, I’m certainly not going to bring it up. I can’t help looking at her lips, berry red though she’s not wearing any makeup, and I feel a hunger that has nothing to do with my empty stomach.

“No more sleeping on the ground,” I moan, setting my mug down and massaging my forehead. “I don’t care if you insist on being out in nature, we’re staying in a hotel tonight.”

Juneau looks at me funny, then reaches over and pulls a tiny pouch out of her pack. She shakes a couple of pills into her hand and passes them to me. “What are these? Hippie moonbeam pills?” I ask without thinking, and then freeze. “Sorry. Bad habit.” I’m determined not to bait her today.

“They’re a miracle pill introduced to me by the owner of the Seattle guesthouse where I stayed,” she says with a wry smile. “She called them . . . Advil.”

I laugh and pop them into my mouth, washing them down with a swig of juice. Juneau pours me a bowl of cereal, plops a spoon in it, and pushes it over to me. “Wow, what’d I do to deserve such service?” I ask.

An odd expression flashes across her face—is it guilt?—but she quickly rearranges her lips into a smile. Something seems wrong. But what hasn’t felt wrong in the last four days? I remind myself.

She holds up the cereal box and points to the mustachioed cartoon character in the blue hat. “This is seriously good stuff, but this”—she points to a family-sized box of frosted strawberry Pop-Tarts—“is the best thing I have ever put in my mouth.”

I laugh. “Is it your desert island food?”

“What’s that mean?” she asks.

“It’s a game. If you were stuck on a desert island and could only have one food, what would it be?”

She doesn’t even hesitate. “I could eat Pop-Tarts for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the rest of my life. No problem,” she says. A small grin breaks through the habitual stern-face. And there she is again. The normal teenage girl I kissed last night. Who I really want to kiss again. Who I wish wouldn’t keep hiding behind a facade of grown-upness and responsibility. Talk about split personality . . . Juneau could be the poster girl.

I pick up my bowl and inspect its contents closely. I don’t think I’ve ever had Cap’n Crunch before. My mom raised me on a diet of unsweetened granola sprinkled liberally with nasty wheat germ. Thinking of her makes my stomach twist, and I force her from my mind.

Sugared cereal, I think, pulling my thoughts back to the here and now. I munch tentatively on the 100 percent artificial puffed squares. And my taste buds melt in ecstasy. Juneau’s right; these are so good.

“Yummy,” I say with my mouth full, and she gives me a full-on beam. Happy Juneau. About as rare as a triple rainbow.

She gets up. “You finish breakfast and I’ll do the tent.”

By the time I’ve washed my dishes in the lake, Juneau and the bird are sitting in the car, waiting for me. “Are we in a rush?” I ask as I settle behind the steering wheel.

“We’re in a permanent rush until I find my clan,” she says.

We reach the main road, and I turn right to head to the highway. Juneau is studying the map. “Just stay on the smaller road,” she says after we’ve driven a couple of minutes. “We don’t want to join up with Highway 84.”

“We don’t?” I ask. “Why not?”

“Trust me,” she says. We drive in silence for about fifteen minutes. The bird is standing up in the backseat, looking out the window, enjoying the scenery like it thinks it’s the family dog. “There!” Juneau says, pointing to a sign that says SPRAY.

“That’s the name of a town?” I ask incredulously.

She shrugs. “That’s where we’re going.”

“It’s a hundred twenty-two miles away,” I say. “That’s going to take a couple of hours.”

She nods, as if she was expecting that.

“Might I point out the fact that Spray is southwest of us, not southeast?” I ask.

“I know that,” she responds. “I’ve got the map.”

“May I also point out that we are on day four of this road trip, and we are still pretty damn far from the Wild West?”

“Just start driving, we’re on a schedule,” she says.

“We’re on a schedule now that we’ve spent an entire day just sitting around?”

“We weren’t just sitting around,” she responds defensively. “I was waiting for a sign. For confirmation of what to do next.”

“And you got your sign?” I ask.

“Yes. I got a few.”

“Hey, good for you!” I say, and mean it. Looks like my pep talk worked and she’s back into delusional magical mode. I feel a slight pang of guilt at egging her on, but if it makes her happy and I don’t have to sleep on the ground another night, I can deal.

“Yeah, but who knows if those are the last signs I ever get,” she says, looking out her window with her head propped against the headrest.

“May I ask what they were?”

“One is that Whit is still searching for me and he’s not far behind us. He knows where my clan is, and if you and I are heading in the right direction, we have to be careful not to cross paths with them. It’s going to be close.”