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Bob talks over Ozzy, as if afraid he’ll let the cat out of the bag. “There is an opening for chief play officer, as Margie is not returning. We want to use this road trip as a test run. See how things shake out. May the best man win.”

I don’t think that’s a slip of the tongue.

Rosie clearly agrees with me because she steps forward. She’s ready to rumble, to defend my honor, to grab Lore’s tablet and end this unfortunate Zoom call. I grab her arm as a precautionary measure. Measures will be taken, but not yet.

There is no silencing her, however. “What about Pandora ?”

“Pandora is also a candidate,” Bob adds hastily. He’s looking at Rosie the way you would a large snake that you just discovered by your trash can. “Ozzy and Pandora are our top two.”

Rosie is not letting him off the hook. “So how do you determine who wins?”

“Whoever does the best job at representing the chief play officer on the road trip. Likes, posts, on-brand content, amazing pictures. Sell TripFriendz to the world!” I’m pretty sure Bob is making this up as he goes along.

Also, it seems borderline unethical. Possibly a violation of OSHA.

How has Ozzy gone from a freelance wildlife photographer to job-stealing future boss?

Nevertheless, Bob ends the Zoom to a round of applause. Someone produces snacks and tequila cocktails that are a terrible idea, because some of us are driving. More pictures are taken, some of them even by Ozzy, who ignores my sotto voce suggestion that he takes pictures of snakes .

“Let’s roll!” Roz tosses the keys for the camper van at Ozzy and me. Ozzy’s arm is longer and he catches them.

He hops out of the van and strides around to the driver’s side. My stomach sinks. I’m losing already.

I charge after him. I hate driving, freeways, and vehicles with poor visibility, but Ozzy doesn’t get to win this, too. I slide my body between him and the door.

“When I said there might be opportunities for you at TripFriendz, I didn’t mean my job.” I glare. Refuse to blink.

Or cry. Because this is now a competition. A ten-day job interview. Ozzy will sabotage me. He has an unfair advantage. People like him! He takes the best bird photos ever!

His hands curl around my waist. He lifts me off my feet and sets me to one side. I breathe in ocean and salt, sun and warmth. Forget selling vacation packages—we should bottle him. We’d make a fortune. I’m eye-to-eye with his cactus.

“I’m sorry, Panda,” Ozzy’s voice says from somewhere west of me.

He’s not sorry at all.

“This is my job,” I tell him. “Go get your own somewhere else.”

His forehead crinkles. Poor baby.

“May the best person win,” he says magnanimously.

I ignore him.

Olive branch spurned, I take pictures while he climbs into the driver’s seat and rearranges everything to suit himself.

I snap close-ups of the van and then flat lays.

My cute pink suitcase with my wide-brimmed straw hat and guidebook spilling out.

Flip-flops on the desert sand with a pair of sunglasses shaped like mariachi-waving cacti.

I’m terribly motivated. I’m not at all discouraged. Well, mostly.

By the time I’m finished posting to social media, the vans are loaded and ready to go.

Rosie has magically acquired a pinata from Pinata Alley.

Ozzy inhales food from a roadside vendor that will absolutely kill his intestines.

Pupusas. Those aren’t even Mexican—they’re an El Salvadoran import. I judge him ruthlessly.

I climb into the passenger seat as there’s no evicting Ozzy from the driver’s seat. It’s fine. I’ll insist on taking turns. Steal the keys. Wait for his ill-advised snack to send him running to the nonexistent bathroom and then steal his seat.

I play the silent game as we head out onto Highway 1.

“I didn’t know they were going to give me your job,” he tries. “Come on, Panda. You believe that, right?”

He has a bridge for sale. Timeshares. An extended car warranty.

He makes another attempt. “It’s important.”

As are my wishes and wants.

“I need this chance,” he says.

Nope. “Seriously, how does ruining my career prospects fit into your vision of wildlife photography? We hook up, I bring you on board at my work, support your career ambitions—” because they meshed well with mine, but details “—and then you stab me in the back and go for my job ?”

“It’s complicated.” He has the good grace to look guilty. Slightly. I mean, on a scale of one to ten, he’s registering about two and a half, so I’m not swayed. He can talk all the way to Cabo for all I care, but there’s no explaining this away.

“Do you know what’s complicated ?” I hiss. “Coding an algorithm . Why do you want my job?”

He gives me one word. “Networks.”

And then he rests his case with a sheepish look. Goody. That explained everything.

“Can you please give me more words? Perhaps an entire sentence?”

“Travel companies collaborate with local guides and naturalists. There will be opportunities to visit places and scout for animals to photographs. I’ll gain marketing experience.”

I scrunch my eyes shut in pain. Marketing experience sounds like miracle from God when he says it. I could try to explain that working for a travel startup isn’t…

“Do you think it’s going to be one, big wildlife party?”

I cannot understand his enthusiasm. Overexposure to software startups, probably.

He lifts a shoulder. “It’s a chance.”

“It’s my chance.”

“They haven’t given the job to me,” he tells the steering wheel.

Yet , we both add. I’m thinking it. He’s thinking it. Plus, Bob loves him.

“I won’t give up without a fight.” I hope I’m threatening him, but I might be trying to give myself a pep talk.

“I would expect nothing less,” he says solemnly.

“This isn’t a game.”

“Because you would never play those.”

Yeah, my words seem less than believable when you consider my pranks.

The spider army. The glitterpalooza episode.

“You started it when you climbed up the wall. Who does that? And then you were so annoying. I had to do something.” Although perhaps I could have tried just talking to him.

Or suing him in small-claims court, like any self-respecting American.

My stomach clenches as I scan his face. Maybe I read too much into our road tripping together. Maybe I was hoping for something more than just business. He meets my eyes.

“Do you want me to take you to the airport?”

“What?”

“I don’t want you to feel trapped. This is a small van, and everyone’s going to throw us together. Do you want to go home?”

“Are you trying to talk me into quitting ?”

“I’m trying to be thoughtful!” He throws his hands up in the air.

“Hands at nine and three o’clock!” I shriek.

He chuckles devilishly, taking an eternity to lower his hands back to the steering wheel. Because truth is, our neighbor wars were just the warm-up act. He knows it. I know it.

I whip out my phone and work on my to-do list. Give up on my cell phone bill and search for service so I can google van pranks and how to sabotage a job interview .

Ozzy is unfussed, of course. He taps out a salsa beat on the steering wheel.

Stops for a red light and then waits patiently while a man runs up and washes the windshield.

I’m not sure where to look when he squirts cleaner on my window.

Ozzy hands him some cash when he finishes.

Asks him something in Spanish. Naturally, they’re best friends by the time the light changes.

“Do you want to pet the zonkey?”

I’m trying to process his non sequitur when he gestures excitedly toward the side of the road. Oh, right. A brown donkey-looking animal with black zebra stripes on its legs glares into the windows of our van.

I sort of do, but that’s not going to win me my job back. “We have a schedule.”

“So that’s a no?” He looks disappointed. Briefly.

Then two hundred yards later, he’s disregarding my wishes—exactly like he did with his job-stealing shenanigans—and pulling over onto the side of the freeway with the gusto of a NASCAR driver realizing he has a limited-time pit stop window.

Berta’s tires squeal. The contents of the van shift alarmingly.

We’re not even all the way out of Tijuana yet.

Our first break is not scheduled for another hour.

“Do you need a water bottle to pee in?”

“Tree.” He jerks a thumb toward the rock-studded, sandy, and absolutely barren roadside. There is a single, solitary bush. It has zero leaves and a few twiggy branches. “But no.”

He hops out (taking the keys with him) and descends on a roadside vendor sitting on a blanket, surrounded by hundreds of brightly colored alebrijes .

The whimsical folk art creatures bob and move, stirred up by our dramatic arrival.

There are turtles and peacocks, a butterfly with pink and green wings.

A lizard bird samples the air with a lime-colored tongue.

I consider taking Ozzy’s place behind the wheel, but he has the keys. Also, I hate freeway driving. I’ll take over tomorrow.

He’s back almost before I know it. The vendor is grinning and waving. Alebrijes spill from Ozzy’s cupped hands as he climbs in and deposits his treasures on the console between us.

“I need a dinosaur,” he confides as if we’re best friends.

“Get used to disappointment.”

He pulls a face. “I have three nieces and a nephew. I have orders. A shark, a giraffe, and a dinosaur.”

I’ve never thought of him as an uncle or a family guy. It’s only logical that he has parents. Siblings. An evil villain origin story.

“For you,” he says. He plucks a panda bear from his herd. “A peace offering.”

He holds it out to me. It dances on his palm.

“Great, thanks.” Perhaps he’ll autograph it later for me and I can sell it on eBay. I take a picture of it lolling on his palm. This is war and he’s just handed me a weapon.

He darts an amused glance at me. “Do you want my face in that, partner?” He pronounces it pardner as if it’s me and him against the world, in this together, buddies.

“Eyes on the road, please.” Our caravan are the only vehicles on this stretch of road, but traffic safety is important.

He laughs. It’s a delicious, deeply amused laugh. His happiness indicates I’m no risk to his future employment. I’ll show him.

“We could totally off-road here.”

I look out the window, but I can’t rebut his stupid claim. We drive past scrub brush, rocks, a cardón cactus stretching impressively prickly arms up into the sky. I settle for taking more pictures.

Another amused, inquisitive glance. “Do you want to play a game?”

“Nope.” I am immediately, deeply suspicious.

“Road trip bingo,” he suggests. “Scavenger hunt. I Spy!”

His social media posts will be awesome.

“How about the Quiet Game?”

He takes his eyes off the road. He bops me on the nose. “Nice try, Panda.”

I check the odometer. We have sixty miles until our next stop. I cannot kill the driver. Work-from-home is difficult when you’re locked up the state penitentiary.