“Eks! For $26.99!” Liz could not have been more excited as we pulled the Tahoe to the side of a quiet stretch of Arizona road. She couldn’t wait for the vehicle to be in park before bolting out her door to the pickup truck where she’d seen the handwritten cardboard sign.

“What’s an eks?” I asked, furrowing my brow when I saw one: egg-shaped in deep maroon, shining and moving strangely.

“What are eks,” corrected the man in the bed of the truck, whose skin was baked and cracked by the desert sun. All that solar damage gave him a wise look. I waited for him to go on.

“Eks,” he said, “first came to my people as we were being ravaged by a nearby tribe. One night, we prayed to the Great Spirit and awoke to hundreds of eks at our feet. We ate them for strength, and our day ended in victory!”

Liz bought three cartons for nearly ninety dollars. Once back in the vehicle, I sighed. “You know those are gelatin eggs, right?”

“Of course!” she said, biting one in half. “But where else do you find roadside Jello?”