Making no effort to climb out, he watched Harvey pour what water he still had after crossing the road into the radiator. Sullen and efficient, the other two climbed back and sat still. They all looked drowsily at the sky. The moon had faded from silver to white: down on the earth the glow had disappeared and there was no colour anywhere in the rocks. Everything was black or white or grey. “Like a steel engraving,” said Teddy, “but much more so.” They were in a jumble of rock, chalky-white rock that was broken off in great chunks and piled up into mountains. The ditch emptied into a river that crossed the road farther down and crept off into a ravine of thick-growing juniper, black in the thin light. Gin blurted, “It looks awful. I hate being in canyons.” They agreed not to drive any more. Blake suggested climbing something. They aimlessly picked out a hill and began to crawl up the side, leaving the car somewhat askew in the road. It was easy to get half-way up; there the climb grew steep and difficult. For a little while no one said anything; they worked in deep silence, holding out their hands to help each other whenever they could. When they climbed over the last boulder, they were puffing. They walked to a ledge that faced the east and sat down to wait for the sun, shivering in the wind. Gin sighed ponderously, lay down with her arm under her head, and went to sleep. Harvey curled up next to her with his arm protectingly over her head. He snored and rubbed his cheek softly against the rock. “I wonder what time it is,” Teddy said to Blake. “I’ve never felt more awake.” They sat in silence for a time that felt like a century. Their legs hung over the sharp edge of the flat hilltop. Blake kicked softly against the rock and a fine powder sifted down. “This is swell,” he said. “You bet.” He looked at the cruel edges of the hills and the shadows between them, sinking deeper and deeper in the clefts, and he thought, “I have only two months.” He pushed the shadowy hills out of his mind and thought of the train-ride East, the smell of rooms that had been closed all summer with school books locked up inside, the first classes with roll-calls and reading lists in mimeographed sheets. He felt a little nauseated. “Mother says I’ve got to go to some school in September,” he said aloud. Before him were the hills again, and Teddy sitting next to him. “Oh, well,” said Teddy, “start worrying in September. This is July.” “That’s only two months. I won’t go, that’s all. I won’t.” “Well, don’t. Don’t ever do anything you don’t want to do. Look at me.” “Yes, but you’re different. No family.” Teddy was silent a minute and then said, “That’s so. It shouldn’t make any difference, though, if you really know what you want.” “But I don’t. Does anybody? Do you? I just know what I don’t want. I’ll blow up if I go back to school.”