Tracker's Canyon. Pam Withers

to say, quoting some guy named Og.

      Alex has said little to me the entire drive; maybe he’s a little uncomfortable around me because of his and Dad’s relationship, or maybe he feels sorry for me about losing Dad. Anyway, he turns to me now and says, “Glad to see you back at it, young Tristan. Your dad would be proud. How’s your mom doing?”

      Did I imagine it, or did Brigit just swing around to hear my reply? She’s staring at me full-on, as if waiting.

      “She’s fine,” I reply automatically. If I charged twenty-five bucks for every time someone asked me that, I’d make good cash.

      “Well, it’s a good sign she has let you come along,” Alex says.

      Is it? I wonder. I hope so. Or is it just a sign of her being confused and under Elspeth’s spell?

      “Angela, do you need help with closing up your pack?” I ask to dead-end that conversation. Coils of unwound rope are sprouting from the top of her bag like out-of-control dreadlocks.

      “Thanks!” she says after I’ve tucked them in.

      “Well, I’m off,” Alex informs us. “See you all in a few hours. Have fun!” And he roars off in the truck.

      As I move out of the dust he churns up, Brigit calls from a few yards away, “Over here, everyone! Gather around. Safety talk time!”

      I lope over and instruct myself to look sharp and interested, even if I could pretty much rattle off the safety pointers better than anyone here.

      “First, I’m giving you each a whistle,” she says.

      “Got my own,” I let her know.

      “Me, too,” Dominik says.