“What’s the story with this guy we’re after?” Cowboy pushes the brim of his white  cowboy hat up as he casts me a backward glance from the driver’s seat of my SUV. “He owes you  money or something?” He’s in his late twenties and has the same shoulder-length blond curls and  

mustache Alan Jackson did when he debuted on the country music scene. He and his Native  American cohort were loitering outside the convenient store when I stopped for a liter of Uncle  Popov and a pack of Marlborough Lights on my way home from work. I flashed on the old West,  where cowboys were bounty hunters, and Indians were trackers. I knew immediately they could  help me find Luke. 

“No, nothing like that,” I call from the back end where I’m laying down on flattened seats  with my half-Labrador, half-coyote dogs, Jethro and Ellie Mae. We’re headed west out of  Phoenix on Highway 10. “Luke’s back on drugs, and I need to find him. It’s my fault.”  “How?” the Native American asks. He’s riding shotgun. 

I grin, amused he said, “How.” He reminds me of the Indian chief with the tear rolling  down his cheek from the old anti-pollution commercials, only he’s younger, and his long black  hair isn’t braided.  

“You give him the drugs?” he shifts sideways in his seat to see me better. A small pouch,  partially obscured by a red bandana, hangs from a leather cord around his neck.  “No, but he was clean until I came along. He relapsed because of me. I should have left  him alone until I got sober, too. Only I don’t know if I ever will.” After ten years of failed 

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attempts, it boggles my mind that as capable, strong-willed, and intelligent as I am, I cannot stop  drinking.  

“So, why don’t you?” He rolls a joint. “Leave him alone, I mean.” 

I shake my head. “It’s too late for that.”  

“Then you’re hunting him down for his sake?” Alan Jackson asks.  

“I’m not hunting him down. I’m rescuing him. I have to. He’s mine. God gave him to  me.” 

“Of course He did,” Indian says. He runs his tongue along the edge of the rolling paper,  seals the joint, and then holds it up for Cowboy and me to admire. 

“I’m serious,” I say, “I needed a reason to stay sober, so I prayed for the man of my  dreams, and two hours later, there he was, at an AA meeting he’d never been to before, not in  eight months’ of Fridays.” 

The flick of a lighter, the hiss of inhaling, and the crackle of burning paper interrupt a  brief silence. The rich, earthy smell of marijuana fills the car. I roll onto my side and reach for  the joint, take a deep drag, and then pass it to Cowboy. I stare out the side windows and watch as  the smoke I exhale trails beside the car, powder gray against the blackness. 

“Sounds like a coincidence to me,” Cowboy says. He passes the joint back to Indian.  “Well, sure. What do you think a coincidence is?” I ask, then answer, “Divine intervention,  more subtle than a miracle, but still God’s handiwork. The guy turned out to be the star water polo  player I had a crush on in high school. No way Luke showing up at that meeting was anything but  an answered prayer.” 

It’s my turn with the joint again. I stop talking long enough to hit it, then continue. “I  should have been grateful for the incentive to stop drinking and left Luke alone. God gave me 

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what I asked for, but typical me, I’m never satisfied. So I went after Luke, anyway, even though  I wasn’t sober yet. Now Luke is back out there, too. I dragged him down with me.”  “You’re giving yourself a lot of power,” Indian says. 

“I have a lot of power.” I hear the defiance in my voice. Four rehab programs in the last  decade and I still can’t accept my problem is a lack of power—over everything, not just alcohol.  The real issue is self-centeredness, but I’m oblivious to this. It seems perfectly reasonable to me  to care more about what I want than anything or anyone else.  

Even now, my motive is to be with Luke, whether we’re sober or not. Now that he’s  relapsed, nothing stands in our way. If the party is on, I don’t want to miss it. Alternately, if  we’re going to get clean, why not do it together? Luke is my best shot at sobriety. I dig three beer bottles out of the cooler and hand them out. 

“Shit, I wish there was one person in this world who loved me enough to come looking  for me,” Cowboy says. “Especially if she was as hot as you are.” 

“I wish that, too,” I say, silently cursing Luke for not following me to Arizona when I lost  my job and my home and had to leave California. He was still sober then. 

A mile marker catches my eye. I sit up. “We’re almost at the state line,” I say. “Quick–– finish your beers.” I hide the empties, hyper-vigilant after my recent drunk driving offense, the  reason I don’t have a driver’s license, the reason I need someone else behind the wheel to get me  through California’s entry inspection station.  

“I grew up on this river,” Indian says as we cross the Colorado, “with the Cloud  People…” 

“Cloud people?” I picture volumes of bong-hit smoke and figure I grew up with cloud  people, too. 

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“…Named for the fog along the banks,” Indian continues, “Our reservation is south of  here, near Yuma.” 

“Why did you leave?” I ask. 

Indian shrugs. “Didn’t have much choice.” 

I can relate. There’s nothing worse than being unwelcome at home. 

The inspection station is well lit, and, as we approach, I see two uniformed men, one  standing on the curb, the other in the booth beside him. Jethro and Ellie Mae are on their feet,  pacing and whining, feeding off my guilty energy. Even when I’m not doing anything wrong,  I’m afraid of getting caught. 

Cowboy rolls down his window and greets the agent, who asks if we have any produce.  The second agent circles the SUV while they’re talking. I try to look innocent. My heart races  like we’re smuggling pounds of dope until the first agent nods, and we drive on through.  

They didn’t even ask for Cowboy’s license. So much for needing him and Indian to help  me find Luke.  

The vast expanse of desert, reflected in the black sky overhead, gradually gives way to  cement and light pollution as we pass through Palm Springs, and then Riverside and Los  Angeles. Stars reemerge as we drive north alongside the coast.  

“Take this exit,” I say, indicating Storke Road. We are above Santa Barbara now, on  Highway 101. “Turn left. I know the perfect beach. We can sleep for a while.”  Eagerness fills me with energy as we enter Isla Vista––a square mile community of  college students that sprawls along the coastline adjacent to the UCSB campus––as if there’s a  part of me I can reclaim here. It is three o’clock in the morning, and the streets are deserted, but 

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otherwise, everything looks the same as when I was a student here twenty years ago. A little  more dilapidated, but the same.  

Isla Vista lies on a plateau some fifty feet above the ocean, so we park on its perimeter,  near Devereux Lagoon, as close to the cliff’s edge as possible. Cowboy opens the tailgate for me,  and the dogs bolt, giddy at their release. I feel it, too, a nostalgic freedom that screams for a shot  of whiskey to dull my shame and remorse over wasting my potential and blowing every  opportunity since my post-overdose departure during my senior year at UCSB. 

I take a deep breath of sea air and lick salt from my lips as I make my way after the dogs.  “Are you sure you know where you’re going?” Cowboy asks.  

“Always,” I grin. The trick is getting there before alcohol derails me.  

We waltz along one of several trails in silence. Gravel crunches under our boots and tall  grass waves us on from both sides. Jethro and Ellie pounce in and out of view.  “That is Dog Shit Park,” I say, pointing to our left. “I was Miss Dog Shit one year. Sash  and all.”  

“Miss Dog Shit, huh? That’s classy,” Cowboy says.  

I grin. “That’s me, classy.”  

We reach the cliff’s edge and veer right. I whistle for the dogs who then race past us.  Eventually, the path leads down a steep incline to Sands, a secluded beach only known to the  local surfers. 

We spread out a blanket and sit all in a row, facing the ocean. We crack open beers, spark  up a joint, and watch the moonlight skate across the water.  

“What is that?” Indian asks. 

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I follow his gaze to the lights twinkling on the horizon. “An oil rig,” I say, remembering  the many nights I set out swimming to reach it, forgetting, each time, that it’s farther than it  looks. 

“I have to do it,” I announce, hopping to my feet, “for old-time’s sake.” I pull my dress  over my head and let it fall behind me as I run into the ocean. I dive under a wave, burst up on  the other side, and then dive into the next one. Once I’m out past the waves, I roll onto my back  and float, rocking in God’s arms under a universe of stars. My skin seems to dissipate as the  blackness of the water and sky absorb me into perpetuity. I am small and insignificant, and  somehow, simultaneously, larger than life.  

Too afraid to come in after me, the dogs howl and pace forcing me back to shore before  they wake up all of Isla Vista. I wrap up in a towel and sit shivering on the blanket, the dogs  kicking sand all over me and licking my face like they just saved my life. 

“You’re insane,” Cowboy shakes his head. He has no idea how true this is, and neither do  I. The insanity of an alcoholic is most evident when she is stark raving sober. “You sure you don’t have that backward?” I ask, indicating the cowboy boots and hat he  still has on.  

I down some whiskey, which warms me for a minute, pull my dress back on and wrap up  in my long leather coat. I’m not exactly cozy, but I’m not shivering either. “So, this is where you used to live?” Indian asks, awe evident in his tone, I assume, because of the beauty of our surroundings. I expect him to ask what happened.  “Must have been nice,” he says instead. 

“It was,” I say, feeling genuinely grateful while wondering if my best days are behind  me. It’s hard to be optimistic about the future when my life has been spiraling steadily downward 

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for years. Every time I think things couldn’t get worse, they do. Still, all I’ve ever wanted––a  fairytale romance and happily ever after––is within my reach. All I have to do is find Luke. He  could change everything. 

We watch the waves roll in. Jethro and Ellie settle behind us. 

“You really think I can track your man just because I’m an Indian?” Indian’s voice  sounds small and far away. 

“Yes,” I say, lying down between my dogs. “I believe in you.” 

“You don’t even know me.” Indian downs the last of his beer, and crunches the can. “I know you,” I say, “You’re just like me.” Afraid, alone, and insecure. 

Indian remains silent.  

I fall asleep listening to the waves and wake up freezing the next morning with gritty  sand between chattering teeth, the dogs still curled beside me, and the Lone Ranger and Tonto on  either end. I look from one to the other, a familiar knot tightening in my gut. Cowboy doesn’t  much resemble Alan Jackson anymore, and Indian is no Lou Diamond Phillips. I’m not with a  couple of Young Guns; I’m with two young bums. I’m stunned that I set out across the desert  overnight with two total strangers. I could have disappeared forever. Or worse. 

I reach for a beer and a cigarette, appreciating the lapping waves and the familiar view,  wondering what happened to the girl who used to live here. Then I realize: I’m still her. Twenty  years later, I haven’t grown up at all. I’m just older, with less promise and fewer friends. It’s as if  my life has been on hold, waiting for me to find my way back to Luke. He is my redemption. All  the hell I’ve been through will be worth it if we end up together. 

***

7 

“So, you have no idea where he is?” Cowboy asks as we approach Gilroy four hours after  leaving Isla Vista.  

“He’s somewhere in the East Bay,” I say.  

“What are we going to do? Drive around in circles, calling his name out the window like  he’s a lost dog?” Cowboy asks. 

“Very funny. We’ll follow my heart. Trust me. God will lead us to him. I know He will.  Have faith.” 

We’re nearing the turnoff for Highway 85, which cuts over to Cupertino, Luke’s, and my  hometown. I’m deliberating whether or not to take the exit or continue on down the highway  when my phone rings. I haven’t heard from Luke in three weeks, but I know it’s him. I fumble  for my phone, desperate to talk to him.  

Cowboy and Indian can’t believe our luck when I tell them we’re going to meet Luke at  Wilson Park. I just grin. It’s so much more than luck between Luke and me.  

Luke is already there when we arrive. I feel like a heroine in a movie as I jump out of the  back end of my Blazer, graceful in my clingy dress, amidst a flurry of wild dog enthusiasm. Ellie  and Jethro and I race over to Luke. The dogs leap about for a moment then dash off. I throw my  arms around him like I just ransomed him from the devil. 

He wraps me in his strength and kisses me, then looks over my shoulder at Cowboy and  Indian, who are still in the Blazer. 

“Who are they?” he asks, setting me down. 

“A cowboy and Indian I picked up to track you,” I say like it makes perfect sense.  “They’re here to help.”

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“Help? Help how? Help drink our booze and smoke our dope?” Luke scratches his head. “Great plan!”  

We load the dogs up with Cowboy and Indian, who follow Luke and me in Luke’s car as  we caravan back to Arizona. 

I don’t have any cash or credit left except a gas card, and neither does anyone else. We’re  out of alcohol by late afternoon. By midnight I’m a jellyfish lodged on the sand, a desperate,  quivering blob on the verge of throwing up my entire being. My only hope is a Chevron station  that sells booze, and we haven’t passed one yet. We park to rest for a couple of hours. I’m barely  hanging on, shaking, and retching violently with dry heaves by the time we’re ready to hit the  road again. 

“This will help,” Luke says, revealing a small Ziploc baggie of rock-salt-like crystals. It’s  crank. Meth is Luke’s drug of choice.  

My vision blurs, and I am twenty-two again, riding an imaginary tilt-a-whirl, exuberant,  ecstatic, enthralled by the mysteries of the universe and my mind, by possibility. That dalliance  culminated in an overdose that ended life as I knew it, and the future as I envisioned it. I haven’t  touched hard drugs in the fifteen years since.  

Heat throbs through me as hope and fear duel in my chest. My skin is cold and clammy,  my bones soft and tremulous. I have to do something, and I trust Luke. This trip may have been  about saving him, but he is my savior. 

We kneel on the floor in the back seat. Luke hits the pipe first and exhales a tremendous  amount of thick white smoke.  

Cloud People. 

Maybe this time will be different.

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“Your turn,” he says. “Wait until I say so, and then draw slowly.”  

I do as instructed. The crystals are molten, and Luke rolls the glass pipe from side to side  to keep the crank from burning.  

I don’t fill my lungs. My goal is survival, not euphoria, and it works. I still feel lousy, but  I can hang on.  

Luke summons the Cowboy and Indian over and hooks them up, also.  

“I broke your window,” Indian says as they start back to my Blazer. “Sorry…” “What?” Luke asks. “How’d you do that?” 

“I threw a beer bottle out the window, but it was rolled up. The glass shattered  everywhere. Scared the shit out of me.” 

Shattered reverberates in my head. The first news I get after breaking my long-standing  ban on hard drugs is bad, all bad. It feels like an omen. 

I pull back onto 10 East, fighting off a sudden piercing awareness that it is the highway to  hell, and race through the heat waves shimmying off the road, full speed toward that mirage of  happiness I’ve patched back together now that Luke is with me again.  

When we drop Cowboy and Indian off at the Circle K, where I rounded them up just  twenty-four hours ago, I can’t shake the premonition that this trip marks the line between a  salvageable life and nothing left to lose, and I’ve crossed it.