Tuesday, 1:30 p.m.

At 1:30 p.m. I was parked at the back of the lot at the lodge at Jacob Lake, the Corolla's nose against a bank of gray snow, the phone held up against the windshield like an offering, and I had one bar.

Just one. It came, went, came back if I tipped the phone north. I held it there, arm out, elbow braced on the wheel, and called the only Flagstaff number in my contacts.

Dana Whitfield picked up on the second ring, which wasn't like her.

“Whitfield.”