Exhaustion pushed on her, and Lavender drifted into an uneasy nap with Marisol beside her. Eventually, John joined them. The sound of his heavy, defiant footsteps pulled Lavender from her light sleep. She cracked open an eye and studied him.

John was scowling. His hands were dirty and covered in mud. He was dragging his backpack on the ground by one of its straps. When Marisol sat up and asked in a tired voice if he’d found anything, he threw his backpack with so much force that Lavender worried it would sail right off the mountain.

Then he tossed himself into the dirt next to them and said, “I give up. All those survival shows are just a bunch of rotten lies.”

“If it was easy, more people would do it,” said Marisol.

Lavender said nothing. She was starting to get cold again. It made sense that the temperature would be even lower on top of a mountain. They had all been so convinced that they’d be rescued once they reached the top that none of them even considered what it would be like to stay overnight at that elevation.

But after a long rest, Lavender’s head hurt less. She was still exhausted, hungry, and, most of all, thirsty, but she felt good enough after her nap to push herself up. She stood too quickly and for a moment, the entire world spun, but after a few deep breaths, everything righted itself.

“What are you doing?” Marisol asked.

“Firewood,” said Lavender. After her long rest, it turned out that she wasn’t ready to just give up.

“Good idea.” Marisol dragged herself to her feet. “I can feel the temperature dropping.”

“Need help?” John asked. His voice was still hard and angry.

“No, we’ve got it,” said Lavender. “We rested while you were working.”

“Cool,” said John with as much expression as an amoeba. Lavender had a feeling that she could have told him that she was going to sprout wings and fly them all to safety and she would have gotten the same unconcerned answer.

Lavender and Marisol walked all around the mountaintop, collecting any sticks, twigs, dried leaves, and shrub they could find.

“Ouch!” said Marisol, suddenly dropping the stick she’d reached under a bush for.

“What? Are you okay?” Lavender asked.

“Yeah, it’s just the prickles from skinning the cactus. There were all these super-fine, tiny thorns that got stuck in my hands. We could avoid the bigger ones, but the almost invisibles ones got everywhere, and they really hurt if I brush them the wrong way against something.”

“Thirty-seven,” said Lavender.

Marisol picked up the stick, more gingerly this time. “What?”

“That’s your score. I’ve been keeping track of how many times you complain about the prickly pear thorns.”

“Ha! Well, I was counting, too, while we climbed the mountain. I was just too nice to say it out loud.” She gave Lavender a very serious look. “One thousand two hundred and eleven. That’s how many times you’ve complained about the cut on your hand.”

They were still making up fake numbers when they returned to the peak, where John was stretched out. He’d wiped some of the mud from his hands and flashlight. Lavender could clearly see what he’d done, because now the dirt was smeared across his shirt—not that his T-shirt had been clean before …

John was still lying on his back, face toward the clouds, turning the flashlight on and off. On and off. On and off. On and off.

Marisol, her arms full of firewood, stopped beside him. “Aren’t you worried about wasting the battery?”

“Actually,” Lavender cut in, “it’s not the worst idea. If you wait until dark and then turn it on and off three times real fast, then three times only leave it on longer, and then three more fast times, that’s the international distress signal in Morse code. If a plane or helicopter comes close enough, maybe they’ll see it and know we need help.”

John snorted. “And maybe the Phoenix Suns will win the NBA Finals.”

“Since when did you learn Morse code?” Marisol asked Lavender, ignoring John.

“I don’t actually know it other than SOS, because it’s so famous.” She turned back to John. “Here, give me the light. I’ll show you.”

“What’s the point?” John said. “We’re never getting off this mountain anyway.”

Even though Lavender had been feeling the same way, hearing someone else say it out loud made her realize that she wasn’t ready to give up.

“You can do whatever you want,” Lavender said. “But I’m making a fire. If we’re lucky, someone will see it and come investigate. If we’re unlucky, at least we won’t freeze as we die. Now give me your lighter.”

“Get the lighter yourself,” he said. “You know where my backpack is.”

“I will,” she said to John. Then she turned to Marisol. “Do you want to clear a space for the fire while I get the lighter?”

Marisol nodded and went to work while Lavender opened John’s backpack, wishing it was a magical Mary Poppins bag. She imagined reaching inside to find a hot meal, a working radio, sleeping bags and coats for everyone, and gallons of water.

Instead, the first thing she saw was an empty water bottle. Then his jacket. Then maps, three of them, including one of Mexico, and also a Greyhound bus schedule. She shook her head. Surely, he’d had his fill of being on his own and had changed his mind about running away by now. If they got back—no, when they got back—she would help him come up with a better solution to his family problems than running away. There was nothing else in the main compartment. The lighter must have been in the front pocket of the bag.

Lavender unzipped it and immediately spotted the lighter. She took it out, but next to the lighter, she saw something unexpected. Something that wasn’t supposed to be there.

“Not the front pocket.” John had suddenly sat up as if he’d realized something. He was yelling even though he was only a few feet away. “I’ll get it. Don’t look in the front pocket.”

He was too late.

Lavender had already pulled out the crumpled envelope full of cash. She recognized the handwriting on that envelope. It was their teacher’s, and it was clearly marked $ for our telescope!