The Tucson sun dropped beneath a vista of spiny cacti and craggy rocks when Marisa reached the base of Mount Lemmon. The Harley carried her many miles down the Catalina highway, but the fuel gauge still read a white bar or two. She gazed up at the remote summit, punched on the hog’s headlight, and started the long trek upward.

The town of Summerhaven lay at the highest peak, a pocket-sized community where her family vacationed when she was younger. She knew the landscape offered plenty of space to hide out. She may even feel safe for awhile.

The temperature fell as she ascended the mountain, passing patches of snow and chunks of ice. She rode in silence, higher and higher until the chill of the increased elevation overcame her senses. Her eyes drifted shut.

The bike skidded sideways several feet, as she fought to gain control. She parted ways with her cherished hog at the road’s edge, tumbling into a mound of dirt and snow. The bike veered into an embankment, rolling twice before crashing into a boulder.