The Higher Power of Lucky

When HMS Beagle suddenly veered across the path to sniff at a pile of old rags, Lucky did not pause. She pressed on, believing the dugouts must be close now, though she couldn’t see very far in any direction. The dugouts would give shelter from the wind. After a while, she looked back through the blast of dust. HMS Beagle was sitting by the rags.

“HMS Beagle, come!” she said, but her words were whooshed away by the wind. Lucky gestured with her whole arm for the dog to come. HMS Beagle sat.

Lucky grimly turned away and went on. Of course HMS Beagle was going to leave her all by herself! What worse thing could happen?

When the road curved around a low hill, Lucky suddenly couldn’t get her bearings. Was this some fork she’d forgotten about? She didn’t remember the road curving like that, which made her heart pump out waves of panic. The project was to run away, not to get lost. She looked behind her: nothing but the thick blanket of brown dust. But the hill on her right provided a buffer, so instead of turning back she pulled the dishcloth away from her face so she could peer around.

Halfway up the hill was a level shelf, and behind the shelf—the dugouts! Five uneven door-size holes leading to shallow caves in the hill. She’d gone much farther than she’d realized. Seeing the dugouts made Lucky feel almost like she’d come home.

Lucky staggered up to the first dugout, a cave about the size of her canned-ham trailer. In that protected spot, the roar and powerful force of the wind let go its grip, and Lucky shrugged off her backpack at last. At the cave entrance, she unrolled the towel and laid it out like a picnic blanket, weighting the corners with stones.

It was an excellent choice that she was wearing a beautiful silk French dress as her running-away outfit, although it was now covered with grit and dust. She arranged herself on the towel in a beauty-queen way. If Lincoln had been there, she would have asked him to teach her how to make a knot so strong it would never come undone.

Lucky rerolled the stuff from the towel into her jacket. She stripped off her mask and took a big swig of Gatorade. The dishcloth was completely dry now, and when she shook it out, she found her hair and ears, the corners of her eyes, her eyelashes and eyebrows were all full of sand.

She began to worry about HMS Beagle.

“HMS Beagle!” she shouted. “Beag!” She pictured her dog meeting a sidewinder on the road. Or maybe she got conked by a flying lawn chair. What if HMS Beagle was in trouble? Why else wouldn’t she have finally caught up?

Lucky was bone weary and couldn’t bear the thought of going back into the windstorm, but she was also lonely and worried, and the worried part was strongest. Leaving the backpack, leaving the plastic bag, Lucky ran down the road to find her dog.

Heading into the wind turned out to be way, way harder, even without her backpack and supply sack. Lucky had to scuttle along doubled over, like an old woman, keeping her squinted eyes on the road. Without the mask or the dishcloth her face was completely exposed. She couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead.

She almost tripped over HMS Beagle, who trotted up to her with her head low to the ground, her ears whipping forward. She touched Lucky with her nose and then abruptly turned and bounded back toward the town. Maybe HMS Beagle was right and they should go home. Lucky stopped.

“Hey, Beag!” she yelled. Then, faintly, she heard a cat or some other animal crying, and saw that HMS Beagle was nudging that pile of rags.

Very carefully Lucky approached the thing, which was huddled in a tight ball. It looked like the thing was rolled up in an old tablecloth or sheet. Sticking out of the roll was a small sneaker with a toe poking through a hole in the side.

18. Cholla Burr

Miles, she thought. Oh, la vache. She wanted nothing to do with him. She longed to turn around and go back to the dugout. Miles was way much too much trouble and he was ruining everything. He hadn’t seen her, because he’d completely rolled himself up in the tablecloth, one he must have snagged as it flew by, so he’d never know she’d been there and neither would anyone else. She turned to go and the wind helped her, pushing her back to the shelter of the dugout. But when she was almost there she knew HMS Beagle was right. That dog would never have to do a searching and fearless moral inventory of herself. Lucky sighed and fought her way through the wind back to Miles.

He pressed his face, streaked with tears, snot, and dirt, into Lucky’s front and gripped his arms around her neck. “I was waiting for Chesterfield to find me,” he sobbed, “but a coyote came and snuffled me.”

“That was only HMS Beagle,” Lucky said. “The dugouts aren’t far—let’s go, quick.”

“I can’t. I have a cactus in my foot. It hurts!” Miles started crying again.