22
As Shea zigzagged down the switchbacks of Sycamore Mountain, the wind grew warmer until it became a blast furnace across her chest. The air in her helmet grew stuffy, but opening the face shield even a c***k would only let in more heat. The increasing temperature intensified the throbbing in her leg into a steady drumbeat of pain.
When the hill leveled out, she turned right onto a side street. Homes nestled in the shade of twisted mesquites, sweet-smelling sycamores, and cottonwood trees that filled the air with fairy fluff. This wasn’t like the pretty suburban neighborhoods down in Phoenix populated with carbon-copy houses, manicured shrubs, and yards covered with monochromatic crushed rock.
The rugged, untamed lots here each spanned a few acres, some dominated by horse corrals and
