Chapter 4
I turned my back on the yellow arrows.
I wasn't going north.
There was an old equipment shed a half-mile south, built onto a solid concrete floor.
When we wrapped the film three years ago, my crew had left a heavy steel lockbox bolted to the ground.
I slipped the timer into my front pocket.
The dead satellite phone was useless weight, so I left it in the saloon shade beside the tainted jug.
Then I tucked the good jug against my ribs with the pinhole facing up and started south.
The half-mile walk took less than fifteen minutes, but in the midday Mojave, fifteen minutes would cost more water than I could afford.
A loose rock rolled beneath my right boot.
I went down hard on my left knee.
The denim tore with a short, ugly sound.
By the time I stood, blood had already begun spreading through the pale dust ground into the fabric.
The jug struck the ground beside me.
Water began tapping into the dirt before I could grab it and turn the pinhole upward again.
I gritted my teeth and kept walking.
Every twenty steps, the plastic jug bumped against my ribs, reminding me of the margin for error I had just lost.
The torn denim pulled against the cut every time I bent my knee.
My left knee throbbed—a sharp, stinging ache that shot up my thigh—but I didn't stop.
By the time the corrugated tin roof of the old equipment shed came into view, my shirt was soaked through with sweat and my mouth tasted of metal.
The shed looked exactly as it had three years ago—half-swallowed by sand drifts, its wooden door warped and hanging open by a single rusted hinge.
I pushed the door aside with my shoulder.
The interior was dim, thick with the smell of old grease, dry wood, and decades of undisturbed dust.
A few empty plastic milk crates sat stacked in the corner, and a bundle of cracked cables lay across the concrete floor.
I didn't waste time looking around.
I walked straight to the back corner, where the heavy steel utility box sat bolted into the poured concrete foundation.
Adrian had helped me secure it.
He had held the flashlight while I tightened the bolts, calling me boss whenever the crew couldn't hear him.
When I finished, he had tugged the lid twice to make sure it would hold.
"If anything goes wrong out here," he had said, his hand resting on the back of my neck, "you come straight to this box."
Now the lock was broken.
The padlock was gone, and the iron hasp was snapped clean through.
I dropped to my knees, my fingers clawing at the metal lid.
I threw it open.
The box was completely empty.
No first-aid kit.
No sealed water pouches.
No radio.
Just a few shreds of gray packing foam and a dead desert spider curled up in the corner.
I pressed both hands flat against the concrete floor and counted five breaths.
I stopped hoping the damage was old.
The box might have been emptied years ago.
Or whoever planted the arrows might have reached it first.
Either way, it wasn't going to save me.
I could try to walk ten miles to the highway, but with what little water I had left and the sun directly overhead, I wouldn't make it halfway.
The desert would finish the work for whoever had arranged this.
My only chance was the car Adrian had promised.
I had to wait.
Before I sat down, I looked at the broken lock again.
I gripped the jagged iron strap of the snapped hasp and worked it back and forth.
Rust flaked onto the concrete beneath my fingers.
On the fourth hard pull, the metal tore free.
One end was jagged enough to cut with.
The other fit across my palm like a crude handle.
I wrapped a piece of gray packing foam around the blunt end.
Then I pulled a length of wire from one of the split cables on the floor and wound it tight around the foam to secure my grip.
I slid the iron strip beneath my belt with the jagged edge turned away from my skin.
I moved to the darkest corner of the shed, put my back against the wall, and pulled my knees to my chest.
I set the black timer on the floor beside my boot.
07:31:12.
The afternoon dragged, silent and suffocating.
At 06:02:11, the shade moved off my boots.
I dragged the jug and timer deeper into the shed.
The concrete where I had been sitting was warm enough to sting my palm.
By late afternoon, my shirt had dried stiff with sweat and salt.
Dust coated the cuffs, the front, and the side that had rested against the shed wall.
At 03:14:00, the metal roof began to pop as it expanded in the heat.
The jug was light enough to lift with one hand.
Only a few inches of water moved across the bottom.
I took one swallow and set it beside my boot.
The rest had to last until the car arrived.
My tongue felt thick, and a dull pain pulsed behind my eyes.
By the final hour, the sun had dropped behind the western ridge.
The heat left faster than I expected.
The damp cloth beneath my arms turned cold when the wind rose.
I pulled my sleeves over my hands, but the fabric held almost no warmth.
I pulled my knees tighter against my chest, my hand resting over the iron strip at my belt.
I watched the digital numbers bleed away the final seconds of my marriage.
00:00:03.
00:00:02.
00:00:01.
00:00:00.
The screen flashed once, then stayed on zero.
The metal walls clicked softly as they cooled.
Outside, the dry bushes scratched against one another in the wind.
Silence stretched across the basin.
For a long, agonizing minute, there was nothing but the wind.
Then, gravel crunched.
I lifted my head.
Through the warped doorway, beyond the southern ridge, two headlights cut through the gathering dark.