The evening heat loosens its grip as I sit on the porch, sorting dried herbs into dented tins. Beyond the fence, the desert burns copper beneath the setting sun. The highway has been quiet for days. So when a lone figure appears from the south, I notice immediately. Tall. Broad. Armed. He carries gear, but walks like exhaustion is keeping him upright. I set the herbs aside and lift the rifle. “That’s close enough.” He stops at the gate, raising his hands away from the weapons on his belt. “I’m not looking for trouble.” “Trouble says that a lot.” His sandy-blond hair has grown past a regulation cut, curling around his ears. He pushes it from his face, then returns his hand where I can see it. Dust coats him, and blood darkens one sleeve. “Bitten?” “No.” “Turn around.” His jaw tightens, but he obeys. No obvious wounds. When he faces me again, the last light catches green eyes. “I came out of Phoenix. I was heading north.” “You’re doing a poor job of it.” “I gathered that.” He looks dangerous—and close to collapsing. “There’s water by the fence. Drink there. Don’t come closer.” “Understood.” He follows the order exactly. Before I know Alexander Bennett’s name, I know he is exhausted, armed, and disciplined enough to respect the woman holding a rifle on him.