Badlands. Jill Sorenson

camping.”

      Cruz had always wanted to go on a camping trip. Her father had taken them boating at Pyramid Lake once. Her son had been enthralled by the sight of tents and picnic tables on the lakeshore. This probably wasn’t what he’d pictured, however. He had no pillow and only a blanket as a cushion. “I’m thirsty for water.”

      At least he wasn’t hungry. Yet.

      She unzipped the front of the tent and looked out at the guard. “Can we have a drink of water?”

      He handed her a canteen, his eyes shifting in the dark.

      A glance around as she accepted the offering revealed nothing but inanimate shapes in the moonlight. “Thank you,” she said, helping Cruz get a drink. After she slaked her own thirst, her bladder screamed for relief. “We have to go to the bathroom.”

      “One at a time,” the man said.

      She urged Cruz outside, telling him to go right there, by the tent. He came back when he was done and curled up on the blanket, too drowsy to question the strangeness of this experience. “I’ll be right back,” she whispered, kissing his forehead. More tears sprang into her eyes, but she blinked them away, exhaling.

      She could do this. She could think of a way to trick the guard. She could find a weapon. If she had to, she’d attack him with her bare hands. Owen had taught her some self-defense techniques.

      Owen.

      Heart clenching painfully, she stepped out of the tent. The sand was cool and gritty beneath her bare feet. She didn’t want to push her luck by straying too far, but she wouldn’t squat down in front of the guard. He kept his eye on her as she balled the fabric of her skirt in her fist and crouched in the shadows by the canyon wall, next to a crumbling rock pile.

      Rocks made good weapons.

      It was difficult to pee and search for a blunt object at the same time. Her pulse raced with anxiety as her trembling fingertips touched a chunk of clay. It broke apart on contact. She tried again, reaching farther. The next rock she encountered was solid, about the size of a baseball. She held it in a tight grip as she rose, adjusting her clothing.

      Now she needed a way to surprise him. If he saw her coming at him with a rock, he could shout out a warning or duck.

      The rest of the men had to have been asleep in the tents, because she couldn’t see them. As she walked forward, she pretended to step on a sharp object. Gasping in pain, she crumpled into a pathetic little heap on the ground.

      “What is it?” the guard asked.

      “I cut my foot.”

      He approached to take a look, kneeling beside her. Her skirt rode high on her thighs as she extended her foot, whimpering. When he bent his head to inspect the injury, she walloped him. Her first strike was weak, partly because she didn’t really want to do it, but also because winding up would have caught his attention. The short swing and glancing blow failed to incapacitate him.

      He touched his temple, dumbfounded.

      Cringing, she hit him again. And again. The third one did the trick. He slumped forward on top of her, knocking the wind from her lungs.

      Oh, God. Now she would die of suffocation underneath him. Saying a quick prayer, she asked for forgiveness. Then let go of the rock, which was wet with blood, and shoved him aside. He made an odd groaning noise that she hoped wasn’t his last breath. Pulse pounding in her ears, she tugged off his boots and put them on her own feet. They were slip-on style, reaching just past her ankles, and only a size too large.

      She hurried toward the tent, afraid he’d regain consciousness and start shouting. His canteen was sitting by the crate, along with the vest he’d been wearing earlier. Grabbing both, she stuck her head inside the flap. Cruz blinked at her in confusion. “Silencio,” she hissed. “Vente, ya! Apúrate.”

      He knew she meant business when she issued sharp orders in Spanish. Her family had a lot of Mexican pride, but Penny and her sisters were typical second-generation immigrants. They spoke English almost exclusively.

      He scrambled out and grasped her hand, voicing no complaints as she yanked him along. She rushed past the SUV, searching for a set of ignition keys. She couldn’t knock on the tent flaps, asking for him. She didn’t see a cell phone lying around.

      They had to leave on foot. Trying not to panic, she fled with Cruz, circling around the side of the canyon until they were out of sight. Faced with another immediate dilemma, she paused, taking a ragged breath. She didn’t know which way to go. Following the tire tracks back to the road seemed like a reasonable option, but she doubted they would reach civilization before the kidnappers found them. The opposite direction was just as risky. Getting lost in the desert might be a fate worse than death.

      Even so, she headed away from the tracks, dragging Cruz across the moonlit landscape. The terrain was difficult to navigate, full of loose pebbles and shifting sand. They ran until the camp was far behind them, and Cruz begged to stop.

      “Where’s Owen?” he asked, winded.

      “I don’t know.”

      “Are we lost?”

      She couldn’t lie again. “Those were bad men. They wanted to hurt us. We have to get far away and hide.”

      He started to cry, which wasn’t unexpected. This situation didn’t sit well with her, either. She hadn’t wanted to leave Owen with those bastards, dead or alive. She was afraid to take her son into the deep desert. The ill-fitting boots were already bothering her.

      “Drink,” she said, passing him the canteen. “Don’t let it spill.”

      While he sat down with the water, she rifled through the vest. She found a pocketknife, a pack of matches, ChapStick and a miniflashlight. All useful items. There was also a medium-sized bag of corn nuts.

      She used the knife to cut strips from the bottom of her dress, making it shorter. The length inhibited her movements, and she needed the fabric. She wrapped up her feet and stuffed the excess into the toes of the boots. Much better.

      That done, she put on the vest and canteen, adjusting the strap across her chest. Then she knelt, gesturing for Cruz to climb on her back. As soon as he was secure, she resumed jogging. It wasn’t easy. He didn’t weigh much, just forty pounds, and adrenaline fueled her every step, but she didn’t have the strength to go all night like this. She wasn’t a cross-country runner or an experienced hiker. Cruz tightened his arms around her neck, half choking her. She kept looking over her shoulder, expecting to see Mad Max.

      After a few minutes, she realized that she was following a dry riverbed and leaving discernible footprints. Her trail would be easy to see. Switching directions, she traveled across a series of low hills, dodging the boulders and cactus plants that threatened to trip her up. She continued at a brisk pace, alternating between carrying Cruz and making him walk. They had to cover as much ground as possible before sunrise.

      Hours later, the horizon turned pink with approaching dawn, and she slowed to a stop. Defeated, she let Cruz slide off her back. She had nothing left. Her arms felt like spaghetti; her thigh muscles were trembling and her feet were raw.

      Cruz couldn’t go another step, either.

      She searched their surroundings for a place to rest. Like wounded animals, they needed to crawl into a hole and hide.

      The hills in the distance looked promising. Tall mounds rose up toward the sky, their jagged surfaces resembling peaks of meringue. She’d been hoping to find a group of large boulders to duck behind, but perhaps these structures would suffice.

      “This way,” she said, grasping his hand. “Just a few more minutes, and we can sit.”

      He trudged along gamely, more cooperative than usual. Cruz had endless energy for fun activities, but no patience or endurance whatsoever on long, boring trips. He seemed to understand that this was neither.

      Her