Outside our tent, the night is dark, deep, and absolutely clear. Inside, I close my eyes and try to sleep.

But the ground is cold and so hard beneath my back. I press my lips together to keep my teeth from chattering.

It must be warmer in your sleeping bag.

I shift onto my side so I can see you. It’s a new moon and only the stars give off light. They paint you in a dreamy tint—­your skin is smooth except where the stubble of three days in the desert has grown in. Your eyes are closed, your face turned up toward the tent’s mesh opening and your lips, full and perfect, are arranged in a relaxed smile, as if you’re stargazing in your sleep. You must not be cold because your arms are outside your sleeping bag, resting triumphantly by your sides. Your chest, naked and muscular, rises and falls in a steady rhythm.

We haven’t had sex in hours, but it feels like years.

I was prepared for the desert days to be hot and the nights to be cold—­or at least, I listened and nodded as you warned me, which I know now is different from being prepared. I underestimated the weather the same way that, earlier today, we had both underestimated the craggy hills surrounding us. “The peak isn’t so high,” we’d said. “Let’s hike to the top.” You climbed like the sun didn’t bother you, and if I hadn’t been with you, you would have moved much faster.

Near the top, we passed the entrance to a cave. I wondered aloud what lived inside. “Maybe a bobcat,” you said and shrugged. So I shrugged, too, said, “Cool,” and backed away.