The storm was picking up fast, and the small drops of rain were rehydrating years of dried-out trash, mixing typical dump odors into unusually foul bouquets: wet desert creosote and mothballs, fine lady’s perfume tinged with moldy cheese, and lavender potpourri layered over the sharp tang of sweaty polyester jogging suit.

  Marco breathed in as little as possible, keeping his mouth shut. The taste was even worse than the smell.

  A small but virulent whirlwind sent prickly tumbleweeds and a flurry of faded family photos, crinkled lampshades, and stiff old golf socks spiraling through the air like confetti.

  “Blech,” said Old Lady Marbles, summing up how everyone else felt.

  Carly and the Kitten Brigade were boxed in between the sour trash mounds and an oncoming wall of airborne garbage, with no clear escape.

  After nearly taking a Frank Sinatra album to the face, Marco was starting to think he should’ve stayed in the dumpster.

  Through the blowing dust and flying debris, a bright yellow vehicle came barreling toward them, bouncing over the trash heaps, its horn blaring like an angry Canada Goose, Branta canadensis, with a vendetta.

  Mr. Ravel was hunched forward, clinging to the wheel of Carly’s old, dented golf cart.

  He swerved in and slammed on the brakes, shouting for them to climb aboard.

  This was the first time Marco had seen him up close without the slimy, bird-poop-covered poncho.

  Mr. Ravel was an elderly man, broad-shouldered and thick-necked. His round face was flushed, eyes bright, and deep smile lines framed his expression.

  From his shirt to his shoes, every part of him was streaked with mud and sweat.

  But to Marco, right then, he looked like rescue.

  “Oh, Mr. Ravel, your timing couldn’t be more perfect!” declared Carly, clasping her wrinkled hands together in joy.

  The old lady and the children piled in, taking with them their strange cargo: three large pink ceramic animal figures, an empty cat trap, and an old blue vanity case containing Mrs. Patterson’s best wig.

  “Here we go!” announced Mr. Ravel, thrusting the cart forward.

  “Wait! Hold up! Stop!” cried old lady Marbles.

  She leapt out to rescue the empty Kitten Brigade basket, its colorful sunset design flashing as it rolled in the wind along the side of the road.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Got it! Thank you!” she called gratefully as she climbed back in.

  Mr. Ravel gave a quick nod and hit the accelerator.

  “Where to?” he asked Carly.

  “Home,” she replied, without hesitation.

  The fierce desert rainstorm was closing in from the east, and Marco could see this wasn’t just a passing drizzle.

  It was a true monsoon, not to be taken lightly.

  He gripped his seat as heavy drops of rain began clacking hard against the golf cart’s roof, smacking into the passengers’ faces like tiny water balloons.

  “Uh-oh,” Lemon muttered. She grimaced and held up her hands in a flimsy shield against the rain.

  The overloaded cart swerved and lurched with each new gust of wind.

  Around them, little birds and other wild creatures dove for shelter among the junk piles, vanishing into old washing machines, fake Christmas trees, and furniture someone had probably once described as “Mediterranean” though now it mostly just looked haunted.

  “Look out! Kaftan!” shouted Old Lady Marbles.

  Mr. Ravel skidded to a stop.

  Everyone watched as a colorful, windblown kaftan dress whirled back and forth across the road like it was inhabited by an invisible dancing ghost.

  He dodged the swirling garment and bumped the cart over a shallow curb, jostling them off the stinky garbage road and into a rugged, open lot filled with dead weeds and rows of burned-out tree stumps, the charred remains of a demolished date farm.

  But a small island of stately palms still stood, tall and defiant, and now the golf cart was speeding straight for them.

  Marco remembered his mother’s mnemonic for the date species:

  “The Phoenix comes back to life.”

  Phoenix dactylifera.

  They ducked into the maze of old palm trees, Mr. Ravel speeding dangerously, dodging the rapidly oncoming trunks.

  Marco was sure that if they clipped one, they’d all be done for. But the old man didn’t slow down. He drove like he’d memorized the path years ago.

  Finally, they burst through the other side of the old orchard, and the children were astonished by what they saw.

  Wide-eyed, Marco shook his head in disbelief.

  “No way. Super cool,” said Lemon, sitting up in her seat with her jaw hanging open.

  “Wow,” muttered Marbles, momentarily dropping her old lady act.

  A single roving beam of sunlight pierced the darkest of the storm clouds, illuminating a small castle on a hill.

  Not a pretend one like Golden Rays, but a true fairy-tale castle. Its towers rose from the hillside, hand-built from desert rock and stone.

  It glistened under the golden light, its turrets sparkling like treasure.

  Amused, Carly looked at the children with a wide smile and pointed.

  “That’s my house!” she announced proudly. “Sunshine Castle!”

  The road leading to it was quaint and uneven, paved with hand-hewn stones. As they bounced and zigzagged up the steep hillside, whimsical lawn figures of every kind poked their heads from the desert brush and wildflowers, as if welcoming them home.

  The delightfully magical moment, however, proved as fleeting as a nocturnal cactus bloom.

  Marco watched as the wind gathered the dark storm clouds once more, blotting out the lone sunbeam and replacing it with terrifying flashes of lightning and deep, booming thunder.

  The monsoon had finally reached Golden Rays, and the rain poured down in sheets.