Clive kicked open the RV’s door and staggered out to piss. The first hint of morning light crawled across Elephant Butte Lake. The other RVs at the campground resembled ghostly shells.

            Clive had stayed up late drinking and singing along to the radio. At some point he made the mistake of reading Melinda’s emails.

            “I can contact you through my attorney if you’d rather that,” she said when he objected to email-only communication.

            They weren’t subtle. Melinda wanted him to spend less time with Clive Jr. and more money on his support.

            If they couldn’t figure it out, the courts would.  

            By the time the sun peeked over the cliffs surrounding the lake, Clive had made up his mind. He popped the hood on the ’87 Bronco and took nips of whiskey to dull the hangover as he worked. After unleashing his entire catalogue of vulgarities, the engine finally turned, and he climbed behind the wheel.

            On the ride, Clive thought back to first meeting Melinda. The night that brought Jr. into this world. He rode horses then, but there wasn’t money in it. Melinda was the first to tell him that.

            Outside of Albuquerque, the high walls of the interstate rose to the right and the city spread desert ugly to the left. Melinda lived on the outskirts with her mother, Diane, but would already be taking orders at the diner.

            Clive arrived at 7:30 knowing Diane would be getting Clive Jr. ready for school. He pushed through Diane’s open gate and put his ear to the front door.  

            “Junior, I won’t say it again,” Diane said.

            It sounded like she was right there. Clive shouldered the door and sent her rolling.

            “Clive,” she said. “What on Earth?”

            He yanked Jr. up as Diane struggled to her feet.

            “Clive!”

            Outside, Clive buckled Jr. in and peeled out.

            In the rearview, Diane tripped and fell in the street. Jr. stared straight ahead, sitting way up on the bench seat.

            “Are you taking me to school, Dad?”

            “No school today, pal.”

            “But it’s show and tell,” Jr. said. “I found this picture of you.”

            Clive slowed for a stoplight. A young mother walked a little girl through a crosswalk. The little girl had a bookbag slung across her shoulder and one shoe untied. Clive stared at the red light, willing it green. The photo Jr. held was taken ten years earlier. Clive on a bull, back when he could still ride. The only time he ever won. He’d lasted eight seconds and scored an 83. Walked away with $117k in prize money which he’d lived on to the day. But that well was dry, and no one was hiring.  

            The light turned green.

            Albuquerque shrank away in the rearview. Through the windshield, desert spread out forever—all the way to Las Cruces, then El Paso, and, if they were lucky, the border and the gauntlet of Mexico.

            “Are we going to the trailer?” Jr. asked.

            Clive’s phone vibrated across the bench seat. The display read: Melinda.

            “You don’t have any extra clothes in your bag, do you?”

            “No, Dad.”

            The boy watched the blurred scenery flash across the passenger window.

            “You didn’t think this out too good did you, Dad?”

            A text notification flashed across his phone screen: Calling the police!!

            The speedometer was pegged below the last readout of 85 mph. Jr.’s head swiveled as they blew passed the exit for the town of Truth or Consequences, which led out to Elephant Butte Lake.

            “Dad?”

            “Know what the scariest part of riding a bull is, Clive Jr.?”

            Jr. shook his head, still staring out the window.

            “Waiting in the cage before the chute opens,” Clive said. “The roar of the crowd. The bull shaking between your spurs.”

            The highway rolled out flat to the horizon with a slight downward trajectory, curling with the planet’s curve like an escalator. Clive flipped on the radio. It was hard to hear over the road noise. Low in the sky, a single cloud hung, unmoving.

            “You’re all alone once that chute opens,” Clive continued. “Everything blurs. The only option is to hold on as long as you can.”

            “Dad?”

            “Yes, Jr.”

            “Are we going to a rodeo?”

            Clive’s gaze drifted to the rearview. A sparkle shot from the sun and reflected back, half-blinding. He thought he saw blue lights in the distance but couldn’t be certain in the desert haze. The Organ Mountains entered view, and Las Cruces beneath them. A thing of beauty. If they could make it through Las Cruces, Clive believed they could make the border.

            “Those mountains look like a dinosaur’s back,” Jr. said.

            “What kind?”

            “Hmmm . . .” Jr. tapped his forehead with his index finger. “Stegosaurus!”

            The screech of an amber alert from Clive’s phone pierced the air. No sooner had he silenced the phone than did another amber alert come across the radio. The tone stopped and a newscaster spoke.

            “Clive Allen Jr. of Albuquerq­—”

            Clive cut off the radio and looked at Jr. The boy seemed unshaken.

            “I like the rodeo clowns best,” Jr. said.

             “Why?”

            “They’re funny.”

            The blue lights came into clear focus in the rearview, far away but closing at a frightening speed against the distance.

            “They are funny,” Clive said.

            “Plus, they keep the bull riders safe,” Jr. said, smiling up at him.  

            Clive felt the tears well and fought them. “Son, could I have that picture?”

            “Of course, Dad,” Jr. said, carefully removing it from his bag.

            “We might not be seeing each other for a while, boy—”

            “Why, Dad?”

            “—What am I thinking?” Clive said. “You keep the picture.”

            Jr. carefully placed the picture back in his bag.

            Clive pushed his foot down on the gas, trying to break through the floorboard. A flash in his peripheral drew his attention. A wild bronco keeping pace in the distance. Mountains behind it. Leaping over sagebrush. Trailing dust.

*