He sets down my bag by the bed, covered in a white, lacy bedspread. My eyes go to the large window, gauzy white curtains shrouding the thick, time-warped glass.
Off in the distance, I catch a hint of motion. A brown and white blur. Ash. My core tightens, heart racing.
“I’ll leave you alone to settle in,” Grandpa says. “Towels in the bathroom. Soaps, shampoos, lotions, all the stuff your grandma likes to buy at the Dollar General.”
I smile faintly. Some things never change.
He shuts the door behind me, and I cross to the window, inching back the curtains.
I feel him before I fully see him. Must be the wildness of this place.
Ash rides across the pasture in the distance, controlled and steady. He moves like the land answers to him.
That’s not scientific.
Stop romanticizing geography, Jo.
Still, I hesitate for one breathless moment. Longer than I should.
I drop my field bag on the desk and pull out my notebook.
Focus.Foothill mapping grid. Cluster variance analysis.
If the geometric structures repeat beyond random probability thresholds, I can argue intentional syntax. Syntax implies communication. Communication implies agency.
Much better than focusing on handsome neighbors.
I work until my fingers hurt, rubbing the callus on my right hand where the pencil squeezes.
Not because I can’t do most of this on a laptop, but because I prefer old-fashioned.
Especially here.
Chapter
Three
JOSEPHINE
Dusk settles in. A cool bite edges the evening air. Crickets and cicadas call, frantic for summer mates.
I peek through my curtains again, eyes taking in the sweep of the ranch—everything in view owned by my grandparents and Ash.
The sky has turned the color of old bruises. But the Starborn Range holds the light too long, as if it isn’t ready to give it back.
I head downstairs, offering a hand and working shoulder to shoulder next to Grandma, humming along to the radio as we relax into a slow, steady conversation.
Relearning each other. Testing what still holds.
She wants to hear everything about my graduation and acceptance to a PhD program, my roommates, and the boys I have or haven’t dated.
I tell her fifty percent, the tables now reversed. Once she shielded me from the world; now I return the favor.
The porch door squeaks, and I brace for the sound of barking. It takes a moment to remind myself that Buster, their Australian Shepherd, is long gone.
The table creaks beneath simple fare as we pile it with comfort food. Ribs, mashed potatoes, green beans, cornbread, corn on the cob.
My stomach rumbles.
