152

You wave farewell to Macy and Langdon as you accelerate away from Dateland and follow the weathered asphalt of Interstate 8 west towards the town of Mohawk. Nine miles have been clocked on your odometer when a bridge appears in the distance, and you slow down in order to check it on your map.

‘That bridge must cross over the San Cristobal Wash. Perhaps we’ll get lucky and find there’s some water still flowin’ beneath it, eh?’ you say, optimistically.

‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up too high, Cal,’ replies Rickenbacker, squinting against the glare of the sun. ‘A dried-up salt bed is all we’re likely to find.’

As the bridge gradually looms larger, you see something that neither of you expected. A small, makeshift tent, consisting of little more than two groundsheets roped together, has been pitched against the side of the bridge to make a shelter from the sun, and a lean, bearded man is moving about nearby.

If you wish to stop and observe the man, turn to 115.

If you wish to slow down and approach the bridge with caution, turn to 301.