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stubble on his face. “It’s been well over a decade since it got shut down. Nobody really knew why, but it wasn’t pretty. Lot of rumors about that place. They say the Feds came and picked up their leader—what was his name? Murphy? Murdock? Something like that.” He paused, staring off into the foggy peaks in the distance. “Anyway, most of ’em skipped town. A few stayed, though, ladies with kids, mostly. Got jobs around town.”
    “Are any of them still here?” Need pulsed at Owen’s temples. He suspected, sometimes, that the Children of the Earth were the dusky figures dancing by the bonfire in his dreams. Sometimes, he drew close enough to glimpse a wild grin of dark ecstasy or the glint of an emerald eye; but their faces always receded into the darkness of his memory before he awoke, leaving him grasping at shadows.
    “Well, there’s one, Pam, who was around until just this past year. Worked at the laundromat. Nice lady, kinda quiet. But she finally went back to her folks in—oh, I dunno, one a’ them eastern states. Connecticut or something. Guess she got sick of trying to keep a lid on that daughter of hers.”
    “Daughter?” Owen felt his ears perk up.
    “Oh, Luna.” Tyler chuckled softly. “She’s still around—hard to miss, that one. Though if you want to know about that commune, she may be your best bet.”
    Luna. The name roared through Owen’s head, a distant siren song from his dreams.
    “Any idea where I can find her?”
    “Let’s see.” Tyler scratched his head. “I think she still performs with Ariel Crow’s band—the Fine Feathered Family, they’re called. You can check and see if they’re still in town; they usually put posters up outside the food co-op when they have a gig.”
    “Thanks.” Owen stuck out his hand. “I appreciate your time, Tyler. You’ve been a real big help.”
    Tyler pumped his hand up and down. “What’cha want with that Children of the Earth place, anyway?” he asked as Owen turned to go.
    Owen froze. “No real reason,” he said, not meeting the older man’s eyes. “I read an article once, and I was curious.”
    “If you want my two cents, son, you’d do better to steer clear of any commune business and keep your eyes on the prize.” Tyler nodded down at the motocross track, which was silent and dusky in the gathering night. “I know pro when I see it—and, son, mark my words, within a year you’ll be pro.”
    “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Owen said. But he suspected, as he turned and made his way toward the parking lot, to his truck and Luna and the future, that in a year it wouldn’t matter anymore. In a year, everything would be different.

DAPHNE jerked awake. A brassy blast filled the Greyhound bus, the note long and sustained. A moment later it was followed by another, lower note, sounding a deep brass fanfare.
    She craned her neck, sore from sleeping kinked and curled against the cold plexiglass window, and looked around at the handful of other passengers, wondering if someone had turned on a radio or taken the opportunity to practice the trumpet. But everyone else was silent, peering up and down the length of the bus as they tried to find the source of the sound.
    “Is that your radio?” a rumpled woman who’d been eating coconut flakes from a bag since they left Cheyenne asked the driver. He shook his head, eyes confused in the rearview mirror. He even turned it on to check, shuffling through country stations and classic rock and static.
    “I think it’s coming from outside,” he surmised.
    Daphne pressed her ear to the window and the notes grew louder, their tones simultaneously bright and muted, exciting and monotonous. It sounded like they were trying to introduce something, like a line of sentries sounding the arrival of a king. They made her want to keep listening even as she pressed her hands against her ears, wishing they would stop.
    “Is it trumpets?” a guy in an army uniform asked.
    “Might be a