The next morning, the chill in the air felt sharp, but there was a kind of freedom in it. I woke to the smell of coffee and the quiet rhythm of Barnaby’s snores. The sky was pale gray, stretching endlessly over the desert horizon, and the Grand Canyon cliffs glinted with frost. Lily was still asleep beside me in the cab of The Beast, curled up in a blanket like she belonged there. Which she did. All of us did.
I poured coffee into two chipped mugs, careful not to spill on the dashboard, and handed one to Barnaby—he sniffed it, then licked my hand instead, a reminder that some things didn’t need words.
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