and kept moving.
At the first ridge, she stopped beneath an overhang and opened her backpack.
Inside were the things Buck had not thought worth stealing.
A dented flashlight.
A pocketknife.
Two granola bars.
A half-empty bottle of water.
A plastic bag with her birth certificate, Social Security card, and her mother’s old photographs.
And a notebook.
The notebook had a cracked black cover and water-warped pages.
Her mother’s handwriting filled the first half.
Sketches.
Measurements.
Strange symbols.
Coordinates.
Names.
Dates.
And one sentence circled so hard the pen had
