Tracker's Canyon. Pam Withers
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“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.
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