Ginger had been told a hundred times not to wander too far from home. But at six years old, she had a habit of wondering what was just beyond the next bend in the road, and sometimes wondering led to walking, and walking led to places she had never been before.

It was a warm Saturday afternoon in early autumn, when the summer heat had finally begun to loosen its grip on the high desert. Ginger had spent the morning helping her mother pull weeds from the flower beds, and now she was free to play until supper. She put on her favorite sneakers, tucked a small apple into her pocket, and set off down the dusty lane behind the house.

She had no particular destination in mind. She simply wanted to see where the road went.

At first, everything was familiar. She passed the neighbor's pasture, where two horses stood beneath a shade tree, and the old irrigation ditch that carried water through the fields. Beyond that was a narrow dirt road she had walked many times with her grandfather. But today, instead of turning around where she usually did, Ginger kept going.

The road curved past a field of tall, dried sunflowers and disappeared between two low hills. Ginger stopped and looked back. She could still see the tops of the trees near home, and she was certain she could find her way back whenever she wanted.

So she went a little farther.

On the other side of the hills, the land opened into a wide stretch of desert scattered with juniper trees, rabbitbrush, and prickly pear cactus. A roadrunner darted across the road ahead of her, its long tail held straight behind it. Ginger hurried after it, hoping to see where it was going, but the bird vanished into the brush.

She climbed onto a flat rock to look for it. From there she spotted something far more interesting: the remains of an old stone wall stretching across the desert. It looked as though it had once surrounded a building, although only a few stones stood higher than her knees.

Ginger scrambled down and went to investigate. She found pieces of broken pottery, an old rusted hinge, and a shallow depression in the ground where a house might once have stood. She imagined a family living there long ago, with children running through the yard and horses tied to a wooden post. Perhaps there had been a garden, or a porch where someone sat in the evenings watching the sun disappear.

She was so busy exploring that she didn't notice the clouds gathering over the western hills.

By the time Ginger looked up, the afternoon had changed. The sunlight had grown pale, and a cool wind was sweeping across the open ground. She reached into her pocket for her apple, took a bite, and decided it was time to go home.

But when she turned around, she couldn't remember which direction she had come from.

There were two dirt tracks leading away from the ruins. One curved toward a line of trees, and the other disappeared between the hills. Ginger was almost certain she had come from the hills, so she chose that one and started walking.

After a while, she noticed that the road was getting narrower. The junipers grew thicker, and the ground became rocky. She had not remembered any of this on her way out. She stopped and looked around, searching for something familiar, but there was nothing she recognized.

Ginger felt a small flutter in her stomach.

She wasn't lost, she told herself. She had simply taken a different road.

She turned around and walked back toward the ruins, but when she reached a fork in the trail, she couldn't remember which way she had come. Both paths looked alike, and neither seemed to lead anywhere she knew.

The wind picked up, sending little clouds of dust skittering across the ground. Ginger brushed the hair from her eyes and stood very still. She could hear the dry branches of the junipers rattling and, somewhere in the distance, the sharp cry of a hawk.

For the first time that afternoon, she wished she had stayed closer to home.

She considered calling for help, but there was no one around to hear her. Instead, she climbed onto a low rise and looked across the land. Far away, she could see a line of taller trees, greener and fuller than the junipers around her. She knew that trees like those often grew along the irrigation ditches near the farms.

Perhaps they would lead her home.

Ginger started toward them, picking her way carefully between the rocks and prickly pear. The ground was uneven, and twice she stumbled, scraping one knee against the gravel. She brushed off the dirt and kept walking. Her apple was gone now, and she was beginning to feel thirsty.

When she finally reached the trees, she discovered a narrow irrigation ditch running between two fields. The water was low, but it was moving steadily, carrying leaves and small twigs along its muddy bottom.

Ginger recognized the ditch, or at least she thought she did. There were several like it near her home, but she remembered her grandfather telling her that the water came from the river and traveled through the valley to the farms.

“If I follow it,” she said aloud, “maybe I'll find a road.”

She walked along the bank, careful not to slip on the loose dirt. After several minutes, the ditch passed beneath a small wooden footbridge. Beyond it stood an abandoned corral with a sagging gate and a rusty water trough.

Ginger had never seen the corral before.

Her heart sank.

She sat down on a fallen fence post and stared at her dusty shoes. She was tired, thirsty, and beginning to worry that supper would come and go before she found her way home. Her mother would be looking for her by now, and Ginger knew she would be frightened.

A few tears slipped down her cheeks, but she wiped them away with the back of her hand. Sitting there wasn't going to get her home.

Then she heard something.

It was faint at first, a low rumbling sound that came and went with the wind. Ginger lifted her head and listened. A few moments later, she heard it again.

A truck.

She jumped up and hurried toward the sound. Beyond the corral, the ditch crossed beneath a gravel road. Ginger scrambled up the bank just in time to see an old green pickup truck coming around the bend.

She waved both arms.

The truck slowed and pulled to a stop. Behind the wheel sat an older man wearing a straw hat. A brown dog leaned out the passenger window, wagging its tail.

“Well, hello there,” the man said. “What are you doing all the way out here by yourself?”

Ginger hesitated. She had been taught not to go anywhere with strangers, but she was terribly glad to see another person.

“I'm trying to get home,” she answered. “I went exploring, and I think I took the wrong road.”

The man looked down the empty gravel road and then back at Ginger. “Do your folks know you're out here?”

Ginger shook her head.

“Where do you live?”

She told him the name of her road and described the house, the pasture, and the big wooden gate near the driveway. The man nodded.

“I know that road. You're a fair distance from home, little miss.”

“How far?”

“Three or four miles, I'd say, depending on which way you walked.”

Ginger's eyes widened. Three or four miles sounded like the other side of the world.

The man reached into his truck and picked up a metal canteen. “Here, you can have some water. I'll stay right here while you drink.”

Ginger thanked him and took several long swallows. The water was warm, but it tasted wonderful. The man told her there was a farmhouse just around the next bend where they could telephone her mother. He pointed to a white house visible beyond a row of trees.

Ginger decided she could walk that far, especially with the truck following slowly behind her. The dog watched from the window, occasionally letting out a friendly bark as though encouraging her along.

At the farmhouse, a woman answered the door and invited Ginger onto the porch. She brought her a glass of cold water and helped her telephone home. Ginger had barely finished saying where she was when her mother interrupted.

“Stay right there. I'm coming to get you.”

Her voice sounded worried, and Ginger suddenly felt worse than she had when she was lost.

She sat on the porch steps waiting, watching the gravel road. The woman brought her a cookie, and the brown dog stretched out beside her with his head resting on her shoe.

When her mother's car finally appeared, Ginger stood up so quickly that the dog scrambled out of the way.

Her mother hurried from the car and wrapped her arms around her. She held Ginger tightly for a long moment before stepping back to look at her dusty clothes, scraped knee, and tangled hair.

“Where on earth have you been?”

Ginger looked down at her shoes. “I just wanted to see what was beyond the hills.”

Her mother closed her eyes for a moment. “Ginger, you frightened me half to death.”

“I know,” Ginger whispered. “I got lost.”

Her mother knelt in front of her. “You can explore, sweetheart. But you have to tell me where you're going, and you can't wander off alone like that. What if no one had come along?”

Ginger hadn't thought about that. She had been so certain she could find her way home that she hadn't considered what might happen if she couldn't.

“I won't do it again,” she promised.

Her mother thanked the kind neighbors, and together they drove home. Ginger watched the fields and roads pass outside the window, trying to recognize the places she had walked. She saw the old corral, the irrigation ditch, and eventually the two low hills where her adventure had begun.

Everything looked different from the car.

By the time they reached home, the sun was sinking behind the western horizon. The sky had turned a deep orange, and the Sandia Mountains glowed pink in the fading light. Ginger climbed out of the car and stood for a moment looking at the familiar house, the trees, and the dusty lane.

She had never been so happy to see them.

After supper, Ginger sat on the porch steps with her grandfather, who had heard the entire story from her mother. He listened while she described the stone ruins, the winding trails, the irrigation ditch, and the kind people who had helped her.

When she finished, he was quiet for a moment.

“You know,” he finally said, “there's a lot of country out there worth seeing.”

Ginger nodded eagerly. “There really is, Grandpa. I found an old house made of stones. Well, part of one. And there were pieces of pottery and everything!”

“Sounds like quite a place.”

“Could we go see it sometime?”

Her grandfather smiled. “I reckon we could. But next time, we'll take some water, tell your mother where we're going, and make sure we know the way back.”

Ginger leaned against his shoulder. “And maybe we could take the long way?”

He chuckled. “With you, Ginger, I don't believe there's any other kind.”

Later that evening, as Ginger climbed into bed, she thought about the old stone walls standing alone in the desert. She wondered who had lived there, how long ago they had left, and whether anyone else knew the ruins existed.

She wanted to go back. There were still things she hadn't explored, and she was certain there were more discoveries waiting beyond those hills.

But next time, she decided, she would bring her grandfather.

He knew all the roads.

And if they happened to take the wrong one, at least they could be lost together.