It was the morning of the third day, as he stood atop one of the crags looking out toward the Needle’s Eye, when he thought of her. There was no wind and the stillness, the utter absence of sound, was so acute it created an almost painful pressure against the eardrums. Of all the things Geena hated about Death Valley, its silence-“void of silence,” an early explorer had termed it-topped the list. It terrified her. On their last trip together, when she’d caught him listening, she’d said, “What are you listening to? There’s nothing to hear in this godforsaken place. It’s as if everything has shut down. Not just here-everywhere. As if all the engines have quit working.”

Right. Exactly right. As if all the engines have quit working.

That, more than anything else, summed up the differences between them. To her, the good things in life, the essence of life itself, were people, cities, constant scurrying activity. She worshipped sensation and speed, needed to hear the steady, throbbing engines of civilization in order to feel safe, secure, alive.

He needed none of those things, needed not to hear the engines. Silence was what he craved. This kind of silence, nurturing, spiritual, that let him feel as he felt nowhere else, at ease with himself and his surroundings. It was the other kinds he hated, the cold, hurtful, destructive kind-the long, loud silences of a shattered marriage, the empty silence of a child’s grave. They were worse than the thunder of engines.

He remembered something else Geena had said to him once, not so long ago. “When we were first together you were a fighter, Rick, a soldier in and out of uniform. You welcomed challenges, you faced problems and responsibilities head-on. But after Timmy died you just seemed to give up. Now all you want to do is run away and hide from the world.”