A dog started barking excitedly. Running footsteps echoed between the small dwellings. A moment later, a young girl with feathers and turquoise twisted into her braids ran toward them. She wore khaki hiking shorts and a lavender spaghetti-strap tank, and couldn't have been more than ten years old.

"George Grayhawk," the young girl called out. "River Dog is waiting for this man."

Grayhawk, the man with the hammer, gave ground reluctantly at the little girl's approach. The speckled hound kept pace with her, continuing to bay eagerly.

The little girl stopped in front of Max, looking him over from head to toe as if he were a lab specimen. "You are Max?" she asked.

"Yes," Max answered.

The little girl reached up tentatively and took Max by the hand when he didn't come immediately. "My name is Sarah Swiftfox. You don't have to be afraid."

"I'm not afraid," Max said, getting into motion and following Sarah past Grayhawk and the other two men.

"Yes you are," Sarah replied, glancing over her shoulder.

Do children always know the truth? Max wondered. The possibility was something to think about. When his son met him again… and Max was somehow certain that would happen… would he believe the story Max told him about why he'd stayed behind instead of leaving with his mother? He let out a breath, realizing that his son might believe him, but the real question was whether he would understand.

The dog trotted along beside Max and Sarah as the little girl led the way out of the village and up into the surrounding hills. The sun burned down against the scorched earth.

Here and there Max could spot runnels and washes left over from the heavy rains three days ago, but they were all dried out now, leftover scars that the dry wind would soon rake smooth again. The bright purple, white, red, and yellow blooms of the various cacti spread across the cracked earth were still open at the moment.