“Go north at Schafer,” I said again and again. “Dirt road behind the dairy.” Otherwise I’d forget. Carver had said “c-a-m-p,” that meant one specific place, and if I didn’t keep reminding myself I’d forget where it was. I muttered while the country turned black outside the car, green light across my hands from the staticky radio. I kept catching myself licking the steering wheel. As the sun had risen pink over Utah I’d known the dairy’s exact name, I’d written it down, but now I was trying to remember if there was really a dairy at all. Drool on my hands. The left-hand wiper had flown away into the night, and in the thick of the snowstorm the Fiesta felt like a one-window igloo sliding sideways down Interstate 70. I kept the heat off so I wouldn’t have to put fresh ice in Natalia’s cooler. I thought about Colleen a little bit, and the shirt she’d worn in the sauna, and that tattoo around her thigh, and Deb in her muumuu.
