By Rachelle Larsen We ride the roar of eight cylinders, orange sand frothing around the massive tires of our rented Rubicon, our bodies bouncing to the rhythm of tire-stained boulders. I’m thrown to the right, and I smash my arm against the window. To check for damage, I start waving my hand back and forth to the beat of the engine like I’m saying goodbye. My best friend James and I are off-roading the Chicken Corners Trail in Moab to celebrate my birthday. “How’s your wrist? I saw you hit it pretty hard.” James is staring straight ahead at the miles of ragged, burnt desert, his neck stiff from always—always—looking forward, even when the Jeep jerks him towards me, or me towards him. Even when I wish our eyes would meet. Even when he speaks to me, as he does now. “It’s fine…” I say. “Something’s just not quite in place.” “That doesn’t sound good.” “Do you know what also doesn’t sound good? Morty.” I stop waving, ignoring the wrongness in my wrist. It does