Wind in the sierra. Vultures rising on the thermals. Danny knew it was a dream. He’d had it before. The air was dry and carried a hint of salt. He wanted to wake up. But he couldn’t. The sky was incandescent blue. He was tired. Thirsty. He’d skated up Las Vegas Boulevard all the way to the 15. It was two years earlier. It wasn’t a dream then. It was real. It was June 20. A day before the wedding. Hot at six A.M. The Santa Ana blowing across the Mojave. His backpack on his shoulder. His thumb out. The heat haze making the road bend. A thousand vehicles passed by. A car slowed. An old car. A ’70s Chevy convertible. Red. “Where you going, son?” a man asked, winding down the passenger-side window. “Chicago.” “How old are you?” “Eighteen.” “Take you as far as Salt Lake.” “OK.” Danny got in. The man was in his forties, wearing a white shirt with short sleeves and a thin black tie. He had a graying flattop. He was smoking. Half an hour went by in highway and blue sky.
