It was unthinkably hot. Probably it wasn’t so bad for the men; they came and went as they pleased, driving into the little town we’d passed for supplies and distraction, but for the women—my mother, my sisters, and me—the heat was oppressive and crushing. The first day had been the worst. Certainly it was a clever idea; my sister Violeta’s husband, Marko, is a clever man. He had heard about the festival the gazhè call Burning Man and had learned that it took place not far from Reno, where we travel each year to purchase inventory for our family’s used car business. Marko had explained to my father, who had heard nothing of this “Burning Man,” about the kind of gazhè who would attend—how fifty thousand of them would make their way up this two-lane highway in the desert on their way to a spiritual festival, and how certainly a large number of them would be interested in stopping to have their fortunes told. Marko was eager that my father should take his advice, and eager that that advice should prove to be solid.
