The next town on the map was Ashtabula. She kept thinking of Bob Dylan and expected wildflowers by the side of the road. Instead there were train tracks and abandoned buildings. The restaurant they ate in served them iceberg lettuce. They were tracing the map. Michigan. Minnesota. South Dakota. Across. Across the mountains. And then there it was. The desert. It was like you could find Jesus out there in the desert. If he was anywhere, he was there. A spider’s tracks in the sand. Creatures out at night and then hiding in the heat of the day. The mule teams went out onto the salt flats. And then at night, a sidewinder outside the restaurant and a man in a cowboy hat whisked it out of the way of his date. They must have all been staying there. Where else would they be?