But Csongor, lacking Marlon’s view to the side, had been scanning the territory ahead and begged to differ. "These roads are for the men who cut down the trees," he said. He was unsure of the English term for that occupation, and even if he had known it, Marlon might not have recognized it. "They go all over the place." And indeed, in another few hundred meters—once they had gotten clear of an out-thrust lobe of mountain that accounted for the steep slope—the road forked again, the left fork winding up a valley into the mountains, the right plunging downhill. Csongor took the latter. A few seconds later they passed through another such intersection and found themselves on a short spur that dropped straight down to rejoin the road along the river. Once again they were following a dust trail. But it was so dense now that they could not see more than a hundred or so meters into it; the Subaru and the Camry might be just ahead of them, easily close enough that they could shoot back out their windows and hit the SUV. Csongor had to steady his nerves by reminding himself that the dust was even thicker in the wake of those vehicles; they could peer back out their rear windows all they wanted, but they wouldn’t be able to see anything, not even a vehicle as big as this one.