What Lasts
A drive through Baja to see 9,000-year-old cave paintings—and reckon with what we leave behind
The first sound was water.
Not rain. Not waves. Just a slow, steady drip from somewhere above the windshield, tapping the front of the cabin like a metronome that had decided to become personal. I lay there trying to place it, still half inside sleep, still expecting the rules of Tucson to apply. Then the van gave me the answer. Condensation. The windows…
