was tanned, my wrists ringed with Zion’s dust. That dust was everywhere. I didn’t want
to go home. I wanted to stay, even after everything that had happened. I wanted to stay
in the space between knowing what had happened and not knowing what would happen
next. We were with the Ranger because of Katie, and we were all shaken by it, and we
understood something no one spoke aloud. We understood what so many our age did not.
That death is real and finite and some people choose it. That sometimes it is impossible
to see what is right in front of you until afterwards, when it’s so clear, someone’s descent so obvious, you hate yourself for missing it all. Katie’s arm a map, a pink scar stating, “You are here,” and also pointing clearly to where she might be headed. Her list
stated no razors, disposable or otherwise, but she’d broken her own rule.
Our last camping spot was a jewel, a reward. We were set to explore Zion, hike
the Narrows, climb Angel’s Landing, not work trails. There was a creek that ran into
what we called the swimming hole. It was large enough for all of us to sit in. We’d all
lunge for the water, then lay on the warm rock, stretched out in the sun, drying. Talking.
Basking in the fact that all of us, with all of our weirdness, all of our reasons for running
away, or runn [