The road curls like a question mark through the red rock, and he parks where the map says the second S-bend meets the dry wash. The trunk ticks as it cools, glass clinks, cooler hums, cash rubber-banded and sweating. He rehearses the alibi he left at home: faculty meeting, back by nine.
Wind slides off the San Rafael Swell and combs the sage. Beyond the ridge, the stone goblins wait; hundreds of hoodoos crouched like a jury that already knows the verdict. He sets the burner in a paper cup, the pistol under a folded map of the park, and counts to sixty twice.
A dust ribbon unwinds on the S-curve. Headlights rise, dip, rise. Wrong color. Wrong time. He tastes metal and lemon cleaner. The butte says nothing. The road holds its dark question mark. Somewhere out in the maze of goblins, a laugh carries on the wind and dies before it reaches him.
