When I crossed the desert on a two-lane with mountains in the distance, it was like driving inside an O’Keeffe canvas. I realized my SUV would slurp more gas on inclines and curves, and that I should’ve topped the tank at the last station. I felt the car’s heart sputter and knew I was at the mercy of a good Samaritan. Wolves or coyotes could take me on a hike for help, and my body wouldn’t last on half a can of warm diet coke, stale peanut butter crackers, or even mints. I didn’t hear, “You can do it.” Rather, I heard my dad: “I always said, ‘Be prepared.’ What were you thinking?” I gazed up at the Milky Way, whispered, “I love you,” turned off the radio crackle, and slumped for sleep.