The following Wednesday, after the step-sisters had resolved themselves not to fear Duane and to carry on as usual; after the festival had screeched to a temporary halt due to flash floods, much to the irritation of the patrons; after Chanden Henric's father had almost had a heart attack, because ten acts took a field trip and wound up stuck in Canada; Chanden himself wandered through the desert to The Fort, where he expected solitude, and instead found a person.

He stopped dead, in front of gaping, half-destroyed jeep. "This is private property."

"This," the intruder said, "also happens to be the back corner of a junkyard. If you want to reclaim nature, do the rest of us a favor and post a sign."

He pushed a crooked metal lightning bolt aside. The girl – Ellie, again, still hiding – sat cross-legged, hands planted on the ground, wires twining around her wrists.

"For the record," he said, recognition creeping over his face, "my spine is still sore from where you kicked me."

"Oh." Ellie met his eyes, studied him. "I thought you sounded –"

"– awe-inspiring?"

"—entitled," she finished.

He leaned back against a crumpled, spray-painted Ford and slid to the ground, knees folding in. Dust settled on his shoes.

"Not a junkyard. This is art. Give it three hours and the tourists will be flocking. I think Vans is sponsoring this spot today." he paused. "What makes you think I'm entitled?"

"The fact that you tried to stake your claim on a hilltop? Also, on the ground last night?"

"My dad –" Chanden swept out his arm, gesturing at the yawning morning across the sand, festival grounds temporarily deserted "– organizes all this. This. This-ness."

Ellie closed her eyes. "Congratulations."

Overhead, the air buzzed. The desert was hot, dry, and sleepy. A leaning tower of tires steamed out air, hissing, rubber cracked open. Lights and torn streamers swayed around them.

His mother called from LA last night. She was at some benefit, lips painted red, holding a half-empty wineglass. I totaled your car on the way back from the gallery, she said. Chanden had hung up on her.

He clenched his fists. His mother, his father. Better off ignored.

"So," he said, turning back around. "Who are you?"

Her fingers dug deeper into the ground. Her face remained titled toward the sky but her forehead wrinkled. "What a question. I'm a girl, for starters. I'm pregnant, for another. You already knew that." one eye slid open. "And...the rest is not so conversational."

"Try me."

"You sure?"

Chanden bounced his heel off a rusted engine. Broken CDs, half-buried in the ground, caught skin on the back of his hand. "Yeah."

"Okay." her head lolled back. The column of her throat was – exquisite. He looked at the ground to avoid counting exposed bones. "My ex-boyfriend's coming to kill me."

"That sucks." at her glare, he winced. "That's not – not what I meant. I mean, it does suck, but – you aren't serious?"

"I don't know – maybe I'll get lucky."

"When?"

"Not why?"

He looked at the ground. "I've spent too much time learning stuff about other people I didn't want to know." another wince. "That's not what I meant."

"Then say what you mean, Johnny, and get on with it."

"Chanden," he said. "My name."

A smile wisped along the corner of her mouth. "It's an expression. Filler. Johnny. I didn't think – well." she took a deep breath. "Well, now I know. Chanden. Sounds like Charming."

"It sounds nothing like Charming."

"Ellie."

"What?"

"I'm an Ellie," she said. "Does that suit me?"

"Only partially," he said, and rose to his feet. "It's going to rain today."

Ellie struggled to stand. Her ankles were thick, he noticed, and her hands drew tight underneath her chest. Cheekbones sharp, solid. Exquisite.

"Junkyards are no good in a downpour."

"No," he agreed. "No good at all."

#

By the time they reached the first ring of food trucks on the outskirts of the festival grounds, a slight drizzle had begun. Ellie was shivering, damp strands of hair sticking to her neck and shoulders. Flyaway pieces curled about her face. Chanden stopped himself from curling one around his fingers, just to see if it would spring back into shape.

He didn't need this. But here he was, standing in line, watching the curve of her face round and soften as she smiled. The lines between her knee in his ribs and the conversation at the junkyard and this moment blurred. She had somehow stopped being a stranger and was instead an object of his strange fascination.

Chanden ordered pancakes and tripped over his own words. The food truck crew, who had known him for five years, were laughing at him behind the half-closed window. Whipped, one was saying; totaled, agreed another.

He gritted his teeth against the noise. For his father, it had started like this – a slow, terrible sinking. Distracting. Intoxicating. Foreign.

"This is an outrage." Ellie held up her fork. "Blueberry flavored maple syrup. Ha! Why can't it taste like maples?"

"Specialty flavors," Chanden said, and he smiled as her face crinkled. "I have bacon. Trade?"

"Never," she said. "Not a bacon fan."

"That's unfortunate."

She shrugged. "Your opinion, not mine."

"Can I ask you a question?"

For a moment, she regarded him. Laughter shook her shoulders. "Perhaps not. Perhaps you shouldn't."

He watched her watch him. Pupils contracted. Smiles sharp, soft, fleeting. Crowds hummed in the background. Thousands of bodies passed them, shaking neon wristbands, karaoke refrains drifting through the air.

"Okay," he said. "I won't." instead, he grabbed her hand. "Want to see something strange and amazing?"

Across packed festival grounds, in hundreds of footsteps and amid the voiceless noise of summer chaos. Chanden led Ellie to the south side of main stage. There, sprawling over cracked desert, a handful of backlit tepees rested, wooden spines weak in the bare wind. Half were white canvas and the other half were wound, hipbones and ribcage and skull, in twinkling Christmas lights.

"This is my father's favorite nightmare." he shaded his eyes. In the glassy, pulsing desert heat he could make out a few figures moving around the tents. "Haven of the culturally insensitive and home to resident old-timers."

"I can't believe this is a real place." Ellie ran a few steps ahead of him. The wind had picked up, slight and sultry, and her hair snapped away from her face. She dodged a tangle of orange extension cords. Drawing closer, she stopped, hand to her forehead, back to him, a still denim-clad figure leaning on bare, blue-veined legs.

A few steps closer. And she saw him, standing between the tents. The face she hadn't seen for three months, hadn't wished to see for three more. Without speaking she turned, pivoted, started to run. Chanden met her halfway between the cords and the entrance of the campsite. "What's wrong?"

Ash rested on her cheeks. She looked down, behind his shoulder. When he touched her hand, her fingers curled, cold, against his. "Nothing. Someone looked familiar. They weren't." she glanced up at him and said, smile forced: "Want to see my campsite?"

Chanden leaned too close. He was close enough, she reckoned, to count her freckles, or her pale, colorless eyelashes. Closer.

"Nothing's wrong," she said.

"Twelve," he said.

Her lips were white. She pushed past him, began striding over potholes and crushed cactus. "A dozen of what?"

"Freckles," he said. "You have twelve freckles on your chin and five moles on your hands."

"Stop following me."

"Wait – what?"

Ellie turned, eyebrows drawn down, hands rigid at her sides. "Don't follow me. Please don't follow me. Just – go back to wherever. Today isn't a good day to see campsites or – or people, or –" she stared over his shoulder again. "I have to go."

"Ellie –"

Chanden reached but she was off, half-jogging. She stumbled – feet catching on a rock, or the ground, or – and she melted into the crush of bare skin and nameless faces. Gone.

He pushed his way through festival goers to reach the spot she had fallen. No footprints, no evidence that she had been here and gone. No sign that his heart was lodged in his throat and his stomach sick with knots. One of her feathered pink flip-flops rested in the dirt. The thong had dislodged from the sole. Chanden picked it up, ignoring the curious glances, and tucked it in the back pocket of his jeans.

Once again, he faced the campground. It was empty – no. Not empty. A man stood outside the smallest tent, arms crossed over his chest, features unclear. His hair was dark and he was staring in the direction of the girl who had disappeared.

Troubled, Chanden set off for his father's tent. None of his friends would understand his story of a stranger – a non-drunk stranger – who also happened to be pregnant, and beautiful, and who ran away before leaving her phone number. No phone number. He blew out his breath. Finding her would be impossible.

Happenstance, at best.