They came over the last rise.
In the desert, the town looked like a patchwork of bright and dark shapes, flung across the living radiance. It was hot and dry and above the sun blazed down without mercy.
“It’s not much,” she said. “No mountains, no trees, just scrub pine and little sticky things that will kill you. And hot. It’s so hot out here most of the time that people live on iced tea and air-conditioning.”
“It looks like rough land. Not too many people around, though, is that right?”
“Hardly any,” she said.
“And lots of room to move and nobody to pay you mind?”
“Only me,” she said.
“Sounds pretty good,” he said. “Now let’s stop somewhere and get us a dog.”
“That would be fine,” she said. “We can raise him with this damned baby I seem to be carrying.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
STEPHEN HUNTER is the author of thirteen novels. He is the chief film critic of the
