The woman wore brown shorts and a long-sleeved cotton shirt with pockets and snaps down the front and on the arms. A large black camera hung from a leather strap around her neck. She kicked at the dirt with her boots to make a small clearing, something I’d once read about in a desert manual. Experienced trail guides did it to check for scorpions and rattlers before they sat down.

“You got a name?” she asked.

I held the canteen a little longer, considered drinking, then wondered if it was all she had.

“Jonathan,” I said. “Jonathan Taylor.”

“Jonathan, do you realize that it’s 115 degrees out here?”

I said nothing and shrugged.

“You need more than a t-shirt,” she continued. “And jeans aren’t the best thing for the desert.

“I’ve got a tent over there,” she said, pointing to a small clearing of trees. She tapped the camera. “You can rest in the shade as long as you want. I’m here for a week, taking pictures.” She looked intently at my face. “You’ve got a bad wound there. You need something for it?”

I touched the left side of my jaw. It had been two months now, but the wound wouldn’t heal. I shook my head.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” she replied.

“So why are you here?” I asked. “Why the desert? It’s pretty desolate out here, and there’s not much to see.”

“I’m a psychologist,” she said. “Former, that is. Always wanted to be a photographer, but it’s the one dream I never fulfilled. I’ve always loved the open space of the desert, and I guess you could say I’ve escaped my life to come to this place. To shoot my last photos.”

“Your last?” I looked at her curiously.

“I’m dying,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Aren’t we all?” I replied.

As soon as I said it, I wished I could take it back. I looked at her dark expression and knew it was true. She really was dying.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

The woman just laughed.

“Don’t be. It’s not about being sorry. We all have a beginning, and we all have an end.”

“But is there a cure? What’s wrong with you?”

“I have cancer, and it’s terminal,” she said flatly. “Ironically, it’s a brain tumor. Imagine that, a psychologist who uses her brain all her life, with a brain tumor. There is no cure. But it’s okay, Jonathan. I’ve made peace with it. I’ve chosen to come here.” She turned to look straight at me. “And you?”

“I flew in and just started walking. I walked for days, slept outside. That’s about it. I ended up here kinda by accident.”

She pondered that for a moment, then stood and took the canteen from my hand.

“There are no accidents,” she said, motioning me to follow. “We may think that there are, but there aren’t. You have a family?”

I stood and walked slowly, following her toward the tree clearing where she had set up camp, and pondered the irony of her words.

There are no accidents.

What the hell? I thought about my wife and daughter. Yes, I said silently. There are accidents.