She hands me one of the spits, and blows on her own, then picks a little piece of meat off with her fingers and pops it in her mouth. “We had the book. Mary Shelley. Read it but haven’t seen it. I’ve never been to a movie.” She frowns at me, like I should have known that.
My hand stops halfway to my mouth. “You . . . have never seen a movie?” I don’t know why this throws me off. I knew she and her clan were off the grid out there in the tundra, but for some reason this strikes me as more extreme than her other deprivations. A life without movies? I can’t imagine it.
“The elders talked about them,” she says. “They would sometimes tell us their stories around the feast fire. My favorite was when Nome’s dad would tell us Star Wars. He knows those films by heart.”
“That would be episodes four, five, and six,” I say. “They did the prequels around fifteen years ago.” Juneau’s eyes light up. I shake my head. “Don’t get too excited. You’re not missing much. The originals are far better.”
I pop a piece of dove into my mouth—Juneau’s cut the head and tail off so it looks like a miniature chicken, which is fine with me—and my stomach rumbles loudly as I chew. It’s been two days since I’ve eaten. “Oh my God, this is so good,” I say.
Juneau smiles. “So you’re a movie expert?” she asks.
“Now that you mention it,” I say, “I should have named that earlier as one of my skills. I’ve put in hundreds, maybe thousands, of hours watching movies. Besides video games, which is my hands-down forte, my film trivia knowledge is excellent, if I do say so myself. Go ahead ask me anything.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start,” Juneau says, and then changes her mind. “Wait. Best line from Star Wars. Not to prove that you’ve seen it. But to convince me of whether or not I should trust your taste.”
“How would you know what the best line from Star Wars is?” I challenge.
“Nome’s dad was constantly quoting them.”
“That question’s too easy,” I counter. “I don’t even have to think about it. There’s one all-time jaw-dropper of a line in those films, and nothing else can top it.”
“Let’s see if we agree. On the count of three, we both say it.” Juneau counts to three, and we both say in our deepest Darth Vader voices, “I am your father.”
“Woo-hoo!” Juneau waves her dove around like a victory flag. “I knew there must be a reason I liked you!” she teases.
I point at her with my spike. “Tell you what. As soon as we save your clan, we’re doing a movie marathon. All six Star Wars films in chronological order.”
At the mention of her clan, Juneau loses her bubbliness, but not her smile. And cocking her head to one side, looks at me thoughtfully. “You got yourself a deal,” she says.
Before the mood can drop any further, I change the subject. “So where are we?” I ask.
“In New Mexico. I drove over eight hours while you slept. We’re about two hours south of Albuquerque, and according to the National Wildlife Refuge sign back there”—Juneau is all business now, pointing off into the distance—“we are camping in a bosque.” She pauses and, when I don’t say anything, she continues, “You want to know what a bosque is, don’t you?”
“I figured you were going to tell me whether or not I asked, so go ahead,” I say, relishing her impatience.
She holds her spiked bird up like a teacher’s pointer. “It’s an oasis-like ribbon of green vegetation, often canopied, that only exists near rivers, streams, or other water courses.”
“What else did you memorize off the sign?” I ask.
“That our particular bosque borders the Rio Grande, which ties for the fourth largest river in the United States,” she says, flourishing her dove.
“So we’re camping out illegally again,” I say.
She nods, unbothered, and takes another bite of meat. “It was the only place I saw to hide. For as far as you can see all around us it’s just treeless, dry land.”
She leans back onto her elbows and peers at the moon, and I can tell from her expression that she’s calculated our location, the time, and God knows what else. I follow her gaze and see . . . an almost-full moon. That’s it. I need a crash course in just about everything that exists farther than a mile outside city limits.
“The fact is,” she says, sticking her spike into the ground and reaching for the open atlas, “I’m not quite sure where to go next. We’re three hours from Roswell. And the spot that Whit marked on the map is a little bit northwest of it.” She puts her finger on the lower-right-hand section of the state.
“Can’t you ask the Yara? Read, or whatever?” I ask, feeling awkward, like I’m speaking a language I haven’t yet learned.
“Well, I have fire-Read it a few times, so I know what the place looks like. And I tried to Read the wind, but that . . .” She pauses. “Do you want me to explain how the Yara works?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.