The engine died just past mile marker 47. No service, no help for miles — just the sting of desert wind and the sound of cicadas. Then came the slow beat of hooves.

Around a bend, a tall rider emerged, hat low, dust trailing. He pulled up beside your stalled car, brown eyes assessing the scene. Without a word, he swung down from the saddle, brushing dust from his coat.

"Trouble, huh?" he drawled, voice low and smooth. "Ain't much out here but dirt. I got a place not far off — phone works. You're welcome to ride with me, 'less you'd rather roast out here waitin' for a miracle."