them.”
“That question’s too easy,” I counter. “I don’t even have to think about it. There’s one all-time jaw-dropper of a line in those films, and nothing else can top it.”
“Let’s see if we agree. On the count of three, we both say it.” Juneau counts to three, and we both say in our deepest Darth Vader voices, “I am your father.”
“Woo-hoo!” Juneau waves her dove around like a victory flag. “I knew there must be a reason I liked you!” she teases.
I point at her with my spike. “Tell you what. As soon as we save your clan, we’re doing a movie marathon. All six Star Wars films in chronological order.”
At the mention of her clan, Juneau loses her bubbliness, but not her smile. And cocking her head to one side, looks at me thoughtfully. “You got yourself a deal,” she says.
Before the mood can drop any further, I change the subject. “So where are we?” I ask.
“In New Mexico. I drove over eight hours while you slept. We’re about two hours south of Albuquerque, and according to the National Wildlife Refuge sign back there”—Juneau is all business now, pointing off into the distance—“we are camping in a bosque.” She pauses and, when I don’t say anything, she continues, “You want to know what a bosque is, don’t you?”
“I figured you were going to tell me whether or not I asked, so go ahead,” I say, relishing her impatience.
She holds her spiked bird up like a teacher’s pointer. “It’s an oasis-like ribbon of green vegetation, often canopied, that onlyexists near rivers, streams, or other water courses.”
“What else did you memorize off the sign?” I ask.
“That our particular bosque borders the Rio Grande, which ties for the fourth largest river in the United States,” she says, flourishing her dove.
“So we’re camping out illegally again,” I say.
She nods, unbothered, and takes another bite of meat. “It was the only place I saw to hide. For as far as you can see all around us it’s just treeless, dry land.”
She leans back onto her elbows and peers at the moon, and I can tell from her expression that she’s calculated our location, the time, and God knows what else. I follow her gaze and see . . . an almost-full moon. That’s it. I need a crash course in just about everything that exists farther than a mile outside city limits.
“The fact is,” she says, sticking her spike into the ground and reaching for the open atlas, “I’m not quite sure where to go next. We’re three hours from Roswell. And the spot that Whit marked on the map is a little bit northwest of it.” She puts her finger on the lower-right-hand section of the state.
“Can’t you ask the Yara? Read, or whatever?” I ask, feeling awkward, like I’m speaking a language I haven’t yet learned.
“Well, I have fire-Read it a few times, so I know what the place looks like. And I tried to Read the wind, but that . . .” She pauses. “Do you want me to explain how the Yara works?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes,” I say tentatively. “I mean, I’m going to be doing those kind of things, right?”
Juneau bites her lip. “I think so. But probably not right away. I’m guessing it’s going to come with time—that it will arise in you gradually, now that you’ve chosen to be one with the Yara.”
“So it’s not automatic?” I’m surprised by the pang of disappointment I feel. I guess I was looking forward to the superpower perks of my “condition.”
Juneau clears her throat, and I can tell she’s deciding how to explain things, since she doesn’t seem too sure of herself. “If you had asked me two months ago if the Rite and being one with the Yara and hyper-long life were all one thing, I would have said yes. But now that I know that Whit was going to sell Amrit to the outside world as a ‘cure for aging,’ I’ve started to question the other ‘benefits’ I thought were connected to the Rite.
“I’m wondering if being one with
“That question’s too easy,” I counter. “I don’t even have to think about it. There’s one all-time jaw-dropper of a line in those films, and nothing else can top it.”
“Let’s see if we agree. On the count of three, we both say it.” Juneau counts to three, and we both say in our deepest Darth Vader voices, “I am your father.”
“Woo-hoo!” Juneau waves her dove around like a victory flag. “I knew there must be a reason I liked you!” she teases.
I point at her with my spike. “Tell you what. As soon as we save your clan, we’re doing a movie marathon. All six Star Wars films in chronological order.”
At the mention of her clan, Juneau loses her bubbliness, but not her smile. And cocking her head to one side, looks at me thoughtfully. “You got yourself a deal,” she says.
Before the mood can drop any further, I change the subject. “So where are we?” I ask.
“In New Mexico. I drove over eight hours while you slept. We’re about two hours south of Albuquerque, and according to the National Wildlife Refuge sign back there”—Juneau is all business now, pointing off into the distance—“we are camping in a bosque.” She pauses and, when I don’t say anything, she continues, “You want to know what a bosque is, don’t you?”
“I figured you were going to tell me whether or not I asked, so go ahead,” I say, relishing her impatience.
She holds her spiked bird up like a teacher’s pointer. “It’s an oasis-like ribbon of green vegetation, often canopied, that onlyexists near rivers, streams, or other water courses.”
“What else did you memorize off the sign?” I ask.
“That our particular bosque borders the Rio Grande, which ties for the fourth largest river in the United States,” she says, flourishing her dove.
“So we’re camping out illegally again,” I say.
She nods, unbothered, and takes another bite of meat. “It was the only place I saw to hide. For as far as you can see all around us it’s just treeless, dry land.”
She leans back onto her elbows and peers at the moon, and I can tell from her expression that she’s calculated our location, the time, and God knows what else. I follow her gaze and see . . . an almost-full moon. That’s it. I need a crash course in just about everything that exists farther than a mile outside city limits.
“The fact is,” she says, sticking her spike into the ground and reaching for the open atlas, “I’m not quite sure where to go next. We’re three hours from Roswell. And the spot that Whit marked on the map is a little bit northwest of it.” She puts her finger on the lower-right-hand section of the state.
“Can’t you ask the Yara? Read, or whatever?” I ask, feeling awkward, like I’m speaking a language I haven’t yet learned.
“Well, I have fire-Read it a few times, so I know what the place looks like. And I tried to Read the wind, but that . . .” She pauses. “Do you want me to explain how the Yara works?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes,” I say tentatively. “I mean, I’m going to be doing those kind of things, right?”
Juneau bites her lip. “I think so. But probably not right away. I’m guessing it’s going to come with time—that it will arise in you gradually, now that you’ve chosen to be one with the Yara.”
“So it’s not automatic?” I’m surprised by the pang of disappointment I feel. I guess I was looking forward to the superpower perks of my “condition.”
Juneau clears her throat, and I can tell she’s deciding how to explain things, since she doesn’t seem too sure of herself. “If you had asked me two months ago if the Rite and being one with the Yara and hyper-long life were all one thing, I would have said yes. But now that I know that Whit was going to sell Amrit to the outside world as a ‘cure for aging,’ I’ve started to question the other ‘benefits’ I thought were connected to the Rite.
“I’m wondering if being one with
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