Thou Shalt Not Road Trip by Antony John

through sheer rock walls and deep gorges,” says Alex, head still buried in her guidebook.
    For a moment no one responds, but then Matt starts laughing, and I do too. Even Fran snorts. “Well, thank God for the guidebook,” says Matt. “We’d be screwed without it.”
    Alex looks up suddenly and takes in her surroundings. When she makes the connection, she laughs. And then we’re all laughing together, sharing in hersilliness. It’s such a relief. Maybe this detour is a good thing after all.
    We slow down, and Matt announces that we’ve arrived. I can see he’s right—we’re in a parking lot, and ours isn’t the only vehicle here, not by a long shot. But we’re still in the middle of nowhere.
    We all clamber out. “Uh, Matt, where are we?” I ask.
    “The end of the road. The rest is on foot, so get your hiking shoes on.”
    “What hiking shoes?”
    “Sneakers, then. Just not those,” he says, pointing at my black leather shoes. “Oh, and I’d only bring a toothbrush and a change of clothes, if I were you. Just what you absolutely need for an overnight stay.”
    “A
what
?” Even Fran seems surprised.
    “Just trust me, okay?” Matt sounds simultaneously amused and irritated.
    “What about my book signing?”
    “It’s not until tomorrow. Hey, you’ll thank me for this.”
    I’m pretty sure I will
not
be thanking him, but the alternative is to spend the rest of the day and night by myself in a parking lot in the desert. So I grab my whole backpack—no way I’ll risk leaving it in the car—and accept when he offers me a liter of Gatorade, and then another. And another.
    “Exactly how far is this place, Matt?” I ask.
    “Not far. I just don’t want you getting dehydrated.”
    I take a sip from one of the bottles. It’s lemon-lime, my favorite. “Thanks.”
    “Hey, no worries.” He claps a hand on my back. “Gotta look after my little bro, right? Anyway, I couldn’t afford to get you airlifted out of here even if I wanted to.”

9:40 A.M.
    Havasupai Trail, Supai, Arizona
    Fran is enjoying this, I can tell. The first mile of rapidly descending switchbacks was just a gentle warm-up for her, whereas I feel as though my knees have been used for batting practice. My quad muscles provide all the stability of Jell-O.
    Now that the rocky path has leveled out somewhat, Fran’s calves, toned from another year of cross-country running, flex with each step. She peers over her shoulder at frequent intervals to check that I’m not lagging too far behind—or maybe to check that I
am
. I’m not in the right shape to be doing this. My gym teacher says I have the physique of a long-distance runner, but he just means that I’m skinny asa rail. You wouldn’t be able to find my calves with a microscope. I have the cardiovascular fitness of an obese guinea pig. And I’ve already downed two liters of Gatorade just to stop from keeling over.
    “Easy, bro,” Matt shouts as I uncap my last bottle.
    “I’m thirsty,” I fire back. “Anyway, it can’t be much farther, right?”
    Matt opens his mouth, closes it again, and finally settles for an ambivalent shrug.
    “Right, Matt?”
    He stops walking and waits for me to catch up. “Think of all that our Lord endured,” he says solemnly. “And you’re getting worked up about a four-hour hike?”
    “Hold on, did you just say
four hours
?”
    Matt shakes his head in disgust. “And you call yourself a Christian.” He chuckles as he rejoins the others just ahead of us.
    “I can’t hike for four hours, Matt. Not in this heat.”
    Alex and Fran turn away from the brewing argument.
    “Then just sit by the path,” he says. “There’s a mule train that passes by every day.”
    “You mean, I could hitch a ride?”
    “Sure.” He scratches his chin. “Unless there’s no room, in which case you’ll be vulture fodder by lunchtime.”
    Now that he mentions it, there are large birds flying overhead, and odd sounds echoing around the rust-red canyon. The