"Do you have cell service at camp?"
"Two bars. Why?"
"If you give me names and numbers for you and your mom, and your camp location, then you could go back and feed Mojo. You'll probably be more comfortable waiting there anyway. I promise we'll call as soon as we find her."
Arizona thinks about it—four breaths pass—but she can't come up with any alternatives, so she pulls out her notebook. She asks the ranger's name—Stephen Gordon—jots it down, writes their information on a separate page, tears it out, and hands it to him.
"I'm sure we'll find her shortly," he says.
Arizona glances at his face, wonders if his expression is meant to reassure.
Several seconds pass before it occurs to her what to say. "Thank you."
* * *
Back at camp, Arizona parks the truck and follows Mojo inside their silver Airstream trailer. She thinks about calling someone. But who? She performs a genealogical inventory, but it takes only one breath. She has no siblings. There are no grandparents in the picture—Dad's parents died when he was in college, and Mom is estranged from hers. No aunts, uncles, or cousins, either—Dad was an only child, and Mom's only sibling died as a teenager. Her last words to her mom spring to mind. I'm not your sister. I'm not going to kill myself. Maybe she shouldn't have said that. Crap.
Mojo lies down in his backward fashion, chest first, then butt. She turns to look at him.
"Our family tree is a friggin' stump. But the park rangers are looking for Mom now, so it's out of our hands anyway."
She thinks Mojo looks relieved, too. Searching never should have been her responsibility. And if the first ranger hadn't been so dismissive, they could have started searching two hours earlier. She summoned all that courage to talk to him, too. Whatever.
She goes to the bathroom but doesn't look in the mirror. She doesn't like to look at herself. Besides, mirrors remind her of the school bathrooms, where she would go to hide. She finishes the roll of toilet paper, then smiles as she slides its naked cardboard tube through the two-inch gap beneath the bathroom door, where it is gently appropriated by soft black jowls. She sighs. Even this small thing reminds her of Dad, who called Mojo's tubes fruit from the tree of a thousand wipes. A tear rolls down her cheek. How she misses that dork, the only one who truly understood her. That's probably not fair, she tells herself. Mom may understand her pretty well, too. It's just that Dad didn't need to protect her. He trusted her to find her own way.
As Arizona exits the bathroom, Mojo looks to his bowl, back to her, then to his bowl again.
"Okay, buddy. I hear ya."
She feeds him and takes him for a walk by headlamp. She considers making dinner for herself but isn't hungry. Tries to read but can't focus. Every set of headlights she sees is another jab of hope. Is it the ranger bringing Mom home? But all the cars drive by or pull into other campsites. She does what she always does to calm the confused seas of her mind—she opens her notebook and writes.
Orange glow of campfires,
Smell of woodsmoke,
Dry pine crackling,
Laughter.
Sights, smells, and sounds
Of happy families.
It's not fair.
But writing doesn't help this time. She closes the windows to tune out the sounds and smells, the cruel reminders of happier times. Where the hell is Mom? Dad would have known what to do. Let's review the facts, he would say. Let's not jump to conclusions. She replays her search in her mind. Thinks about the ant people half a mile distant. The red jacket she couldn't see. Was that Mom? She thinks about rep-tiles and reptiles and wants to turtle her dizzy head into her shell.
She curls up on the bed with Mojo, for comfort rather than sleep— knowing that the latter won't come.
"Sometimes you're the only thing that makes sense to me," she whispers. Mojo smacks his lips repeatedly, like an old man deep in thought.
The unconditional love of a dog, of her dog, is all that keeps the weight of loss and confusion from crushing her. She holds him, his short tail twitching as he dreams.
