Greg Williams stood between the batwing doors of the old saloon. Behind him, spread out on the floor, Tracey McMaster groaned. When the injured man attempted to sit up, pain screamed behind his eyes. Although he believed he had moved, Tracey realized he had no feeling from his neck downward. Staring upward, he muttered the name "Gia."

"Gia's gone to get help," Greg stated, squatting beside his boyhood best friend. Overnight, his life had drastically changed. No longer the fun-loving drifter, he had transformed into a caregiver. Cradling his companion's head, he slowly lifted a dipper of water to the boy's lips.

"Have mercy," Tracey muttered, his lips remaining dry despite the sip of water. "She'll drive that bus into a gully if she's not careful."

"Let's hope she's careful," Greg responded, squeezing his friend's hand. The lack of warmth in the palm frightened him. When the stiff fingers did not tighten around his own, the young hippie became alarmed. "Can you sit up, Trace?"

"No." The injured boy's lips formed the word, but no sound came out. Tears streaked his chocolate cheeks.

Greg sat back on his heels. How much time had passed since Gia trundled off with the bus? It seemed like an eternity. Returning to the batwing doors, he found the sun at the midmorning point. Only a few hours had passed. His sister couldn't have made it to the service station yet. With slumped shoulders, he returned to sit beside his friend.

Had sending his sister been the right choice? Greg wondered. It was six of one or half a dozen of the other. Still, he wrestled with himself over the decision. What if the kombi didn't make it back? Alone on the desert, Gia would panic. She would never be able to walk back to the only sign of civilization they had encountered on their journey.

If that amp hadn't blown, Greg thought, they would be safe in LA. Perhaps they should have stayed and faced the consequences instead of leaving Pete Strong behind to deal with their mess. His messed-up head caused interference with his thinking. He'd messed up for so long he no longer knew what straight was.

After this experience, things would have to change. If they came out safe and sound, Greg decided he would go on the straight and narrow. He promised himself he would go back to school and maybe on to college. He could never become Phil Perfect, but he could do better. It was about time the hippie grew up. Drifting across the country playing gigs was never meant to be an ongoing occupation. Neither was getting stoned.

"Man, Trace, we done screwed up," Greg stated. Keeping his back to his friend, he leaned between the swinging bar doors.

"We done, Greggie," Tracey muttered, shaking his head back and forth. It was the only part of him he could move. "We done, Tom Turkey. Man O Man, are we done."

"Not yet, man," the young hippie replied. "Gia will bring help."

"Gia?" his companion responded, forcing a smile. "Gia couldn't find her way out of a paper bag."

"Don't underestimate Gia, Trace," Greg answered, not believing it himself.

"Yeah, sure," the injured man muttered, closing his eyes. Then, he fell back into unconsciousness.

Greg's shoulders sank. His sister had never been the reliable sort. It had been her idea to start the group and take it on the road. Hitherto, Gia had been the dominant of the twins. Greg had followed her whims and was motivated by her suggestions. Now, suddenly, their roles had changed. It was his judgment that would get them out of Whispering Springs.

Closing his eyes, he pictured Gia driving along the rutted road. The bus would pitch back and forth as it had on its way across the desert. Anxiously, his sister's white knuckles would grip the wheel as she leaned into the windshield. Still, she would continue until she reached the service station. He envisioned her rush inside to plead with the owner for help. Oh, she could be convincing—just as she'd always convinced him to join her folly. However, this time it was life or death.

Slowly, the sun inched toward high noon. Greg stepped into the road and gazed southward. The still desert spread away from the ghost town. Loneliness pressed upon the young hippie. Digging his hands into his pockets, he tentatively took a few steps along the road. If he began to walk, perhaps he could meet Gia on her return journey.

Deciding to walk out to meet her, Greg strolled along the road. Passing the blacksmiths, he left Whispering Springs behind. Step by step, he moved further away from the shelter. Oppressively hot, the scorching sun beat upon his back. Sweat began to soak his shirt; his jeans clung to his legs. Anxiously, he glanced back toward the ghost town.

How many miles would he have to walk until he met his sister? Should he leave Tracey that long? Sure, his friend was unconscious. However, if he awoke alone, would he feel abandoned? Deciding Gia would return shortly, he strode back to the saloon to hold vigilance.

Minutes stretched into hours. Time stood still. If the older man at the service station did not help, his sister would seek assistance elsewhere. Could she manage to drive further on, knowing the next town was miles away? Greg shoved the thought aside. The gas station attendant had to help them--Gia would manage to persuade him. No one was heartless enough to turn a young girl away.