Albert hesitated, but not for long. He could do it, he told himself, almost surprised by the thought.
“Welcome to McDonald’s,” Albert said. “May I help you?”
“Are you open?”
“What would you like?”
The kids shrugged. “Two number-one combos?”
Albert stared at the computer console. It was a maze of color-coded buttons. That would have to wait.
“What kind of drink? I mean beverage?”
“Orange soda?”
“Coming right up,” Albert said. He found burger patties in a refrigerator drawer below the grill. They made a satisfying sound as he slapped them onto the grill.
He spotted a paper hat resting on a shelf. He put it on.
While the burger patties sizzled, he opened the thick manual and searched the index for French fries.
SEVEN
289 HOURS, 45 MINUTES
LANA LAY IN the dark, staring up at the stars.
She couldn’t see the vultures anymore, but they weren’t far off. Several had tried to land nearby, and Patrick had scared them off. But she knew they were still out there.
She was scared. Scared of dying. Scared of never seeing her mom and dad again. Her mom and dad, who probably didn’t even know she was missing. They called Grandpa Luke every night and talked to her, told her they loved her…and refused to let her come home.
“We want you to have a break from the city, sweetheart,” her mother would say. “We want you to have some time to think and clear your head.”
Lana burned with fury at her parents. Especially her mother. If she let it, the anger could burn so hot, it almost blanked out her pain.
But not quite. Not really. Not for long. The pain was her whole world now. Pain and fear.
She wondered what she looked like right now. She had never been pretty, really—her eyes, she felt, were too small, her dark hair too lank to do more with than let hang there. But now, with her face a mass of bruises, cuts, and caked-on blood, she probably looked like something from a horror movie.
Where was Grandpa Luke? She only half remembered the seconds before the crash, and the crash itself was just a blur, fractured images of space twirling around her as her body was bludgeoned.
It was confusing. Made no sense. Her grandfather had simply disappeared from the truck: one minute there, and the next not there. She had no memory of the truck door opening or closing, and why would the old man have jumped out?
Crazy.
Impossible.
She was sure of one thing: There had been no word of warning from her grandfather. In a heartbeat he was gone and she was plunging down the ravine.
Lana was desperately thirsty. The closest place she knew where she could get a drink was the ranch. It was probably no more than a mile away. If she could somehow get up to the road…but even in daylight, even healthy, the climb would have been nearly impossible.
She raised her throbbing head a little and twisted till she saw the truck. It was just a few feet away, wheels up, silhouetted against the stars.
Something scuttled across her neck. Patrick sat up, focused on the faint sound.
“Don’t let anything get me, boy,” she begged.
Patrick woofed, the way he did when he wanted to play.
“I don’t have any food for you, boy,” she said. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to us.”
Patrick settled back down, head on paws.
“I guess Mom will be happy,” Lana said. “I guess she’ll be really happy she made me come here.”
She would not have noticed the eyes glittering in the dark, except that Patrick was up all at once, bristling and growling like nothing she had ever heard before.
“What is it, boy?”
Green eyes, hovering, disembodied. Staring straight at her. The eyes blinked at a lazy speed, opened again.
Patrick was barking like crazy now, prancing back and forth.
The mountain lion roared. It was a hoarse, deep-throated, snarling sound.
Lana yelled, “Go away! Leave me alone!” Her voice was pathetic—weak, and aware of its own weakness.
Patrick ran back to Lana, then turned, finding his courage again, and faced the mountain lion.
In a flash, battle was joined, an explosion of snarling, canine and feline, deep, terrible sounds. In half a minute it was over and the mountain lion’s glittering eyes reappeared farther away. They blinked once, stared, then were gone.
Patrick came back slowly. He slouched heavily beside Lana.
“Good boy, good boy,” Lana cooed. “You scared off that old lion, didn’t you, boy? Oh, my good dog. Good boy.”
Patrick wagged his tail weakly.
“Did he hurt you, boy? Did he hurt you, my good boy?”
She ran her one usable hand over her dog. His ruff was wet, slick to the touch. It could only be blood. She probed, and Patrick whimpered in pain.
Then she felt the flow. There was a deep cut in Patrick’s neck. The blood was pumping out, surging with each heartbeat, draining the dog’s life away.
“No, no, no,” Lana cried. “You can’t die. You can’t die.”
If he died, she would be alone in the desert, unable to move. Alone.
The mountain lion would come back.
Then the vultures.
No. No. That wasn’t going to happen.
No.
The fear was too much to contain, it couldn’t be reasoned with, it couldn’t be resisted. Lana cried out in terror, “Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. I want my mom! Help me, someone help me! Mommy, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I want to go home, I want to go home.”