“Morning, buddy,” I whispered. “Ready to see what else this road has for us?”
We left the campsite with the rising sun painting the sky orange and pink. The roads wound tighter now, descending into the canyon’s shadows, and I drove slow enough to notice every detail. A lone hawk circled overhead, wings wide as if inspecting our little convoy. The wind carried the scent of juniper and sage. I let the truck rumble beneath us, old engine singing, radio off. Silence was perfect.
Halfway to Flagstaff, we stopped at a small diner that smelled like fried dough and cinnamon. Barnaby sat by the truck outside, tail sweeping the gravel, while I ordered pancakes and eggs. The waitress, a woman with tired eyes but a gentle smile, set down our plates.
“Travelling far?” she asked.
I nodded. “As far as we need to go.”
She smiled knowingly, not asking more, and left me to it. I realized then that most people don’t notice the people who are on the margins, the ones who live in the in-between spaces. But sometimes, the margins are exactly where life feels richest.
By the time we reached the outskirts of Sedona, the red rocks glowed like molten fire. The desert stretched endlessly around us, and I pulled over at a clearing. No tourists, no drones, just the earth and the sky. I lit a small fire again, letting the flames crackle while Lily explored nearby rocks. Barnaby sniffed everything, nose to the wind, guarding, alert, steady.
“Dad?” Lily asked, sitting beside me, her small hand brushing against mine.
