Amanda took the torn page from Maniac. To her, it was the broken wing of a bird, a pet out in the rain.

You’ll know her more by your questions than by her answers. Keep looking at her long enough. One day you might see someone you know.

To a person who expects every desert to be barren sand dunes, the Sonoran must come as a surprise. Not only are there no dunes, there's no sand. At least not the sort of sand you find at the beach. The ground does have a sandy color to it, or gray, but your feet won't sink in. It's hard, as if it's been tamped. And pebbly. And glinting with -- what else -- mica.

Nobody knows who said it first, but somebody must have: 'Kid's gotta be a maniac.

She was elusive. She was today. She was tomorrow. She was the faintest scent of a cactus flower, the flitting shadow of an elf owl. We did not know what to make of her. In our minds we tried to pin her to a cork board like a butterfly, but the pin merely went through and away she flew.

We live in a silent explosion, Everything is flying away from everything else... flying away... flying away...

She laughed, and the desert sang.