I point towards the Foothills in the distance, an expanse of grey reaching toward the blue above, painting the sky an envelope yellow. *That must be fire,* I tell you, and move my hand from the shifter to your knee.
But he has a Border Collie’s mind and obsessions; he oscillates with nervous energy and is burdened with a sense of duty that he, being sheepless, can never quite fulfill. The only time he is at peace is when we walk at the creek.
Outside and through the passenger window Theresa noticed the last remnants of neighborhoods, places where an occasional garage light disappeared behind a satellite dish, or a vine- covered fence protected houses from the sight of the highway.