Without thinking, I reach for my crossbow and then remember that it’s gone. I dropped it during the scuffle with Whit’s men in Salt Lake City. I can make myself another one if I find some suitable wood. In the absence of my preferred weapon, I get out my bowie knife and set it beside the fire. Its steel will be my security tonight.

I glance up at the sky. It’s a couple of hours before sunset. Suddenly ravenous, I remember that I haven’t eaten since morning. I am too exhausted to make a fire, so I end up eating beef stew straight out of the can, and finish it off with a small stack of crackers.

The disappearing sun fills the sky with reds, oranges, and pinks that are almost as stunning as a borealis back home. Scanning the horizon one last time for cars or wandering travelers, I unfurl a sheet inside the tent and lie down. Miles still has hours to go before he will awake (because he will awake) and I need to rest while I can. Minutes pass as I stare at the top of the tent, immune to sleep. Finally I give in to what I want, scoop up my covering, and return to the truck.

Spreading my blanket by the sleeping bag, I lie down next to Miles. I scoot back until I feel him behind me, then close my eyes and sleep.

I awaken with a start. A noise just came from somewhere nearby. A whisper. I sit up and scan the sky until I find the North Star and the moon. Their positions tell me that it’s somewhere between ten and eleven. Miles should have awakened by now.

I place my hand over his mouth and nose. He’s not breathing.

My heart swells painfully. Becomes the size of a balloon. Threatens to pop.

I know I did the Rite correctly, but what if he had lost too much blood before it took effect? Tears scrape the back of my eyes, and I lower my head to rest it on his chest. And I hear something. A heartbeat.

I sit back up, and watch as Miles’s lips twitch and his mouth opens. He takes a sudden breath, filling his lungs with air before coughing it back out.

“Miles!” I yell.

“Juneau,” he whispers. “I can’t move.” His words are ragged. Forced. His eyes remain closed.

“It’s okay, Miles,” I urge. I’m so overcome with emotion, I can barely speak. I wipe a tear away. “You just woke from death-sleep. You won’t be able to move for a while.”

“I can’t see,” he says, and I reach over and open his eyes. The white film, though still there, is clearing up.

“It’s you,” he breathes.

I lean over and kiss him lightly. “You’re alive.”

“Thanks to you and your New Age juju,” he says through stiff lips. I laugh and flush with relief. Death has not changed Miles.

“You’re part of that juju now,” I respond. “You’re one with the Yara, Miles. You’re not going to die for a very long time.”

He closes his eyes and is able to open them again. After a long moment he says, “I had dreams about that, while I was . . . dead or whatever.”

I nod, and want to ask him about his Path. Every Rite-traveler comes back with different tales. The settings rarely vary, but their experiences on the Path are as different as the person traveling it. And with Miles’s past . . . with his situation . . . I can’t even imagine what he had to face. But I won’t ask now. He needs time to understand what all of it means. To accept what has happened to him.

He scans the night sky. “The last time I was conscious we were in my buddies’ old drinking shack outside L.A.,” he says.

“We’re a few hours away, in the Mojave, hiding from your dad and Whit.”

His eyes meet mine. “Have you seen them?”

“Yes,” I respond. “Your dad and his men drove past the cabin, but I camouflaged us. They didn’t see a thing.”

“Good party trick,” he says, and that old teasing smile spreads across his lips. He’s regaining control of his facial muscles. “What about Whit?” he asks.

“If he survived the crash and managed to get the jeep back on the road, he’ll be after us, too. But we’re well hidden, and you’re going to want to sleep pretty much nonstop for the next few days.”

Miles’s eyes move left and right. “Where am I lying?” he asks.

“In the back of a Chevrolet pickup truck.”

“Which you got by . . . ,” he prompts.

“. . . trading it for your car.”

A bemused smile forms on Miles’s mouth. “You traded my BMW for a Chevy pickup?”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Let’s just say that the other guy must be pretty damn happy.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I needed a car no one would recognize.”

“It’s okay,” Miles says. “My Beamer didn’t really suit you anyway. But this Chevy . . . yeah, I can see you driving one of these. I mean, if there are no available dogsleds.”

I smile and throw my arms around him, pulling him up off the truck bed. “You wouldn’t take advantage of a temporarily paralyzed guy, would you?” he asks, his voice muffled by my shoulder.

“Of course not!” I say, pulling away with mock horror.

“That wasn’t a question,” he says, his eyes shining with mischief. “It was a request.”

I smile. And leaning forward, I kiss him.

8

MILES

I’M BACK. AT LEAST I THINK I AM. MAYBE THIS IS hippy-dippy New Age me, and as soon as I can move again I’ll start craving tofu and Birkenstocks.

I’m just glad I’m here. Juneau saved me. Back there in the cabin I could literally feel my life flowing out of me. I know I passed out a couple of times, and each time I came to feeling less connected. Like I was becoming immune to gravity and might just float off into space.