She stood there for twenty minutes, not moving, while something inside her arranged itself into a plan.
Then she went down to the creek.
Maisie was holding the horses, her fourteen-year-old posture already made of responsibility. Thomas sat on a rock throwing smaller rocks into the water with the earnest boredom only a six-year-old could perfect.
Petra stopped in front of them and said, “I found it.”
Maisie didn’t smile. She rarely did anymore, not since July. Her father’s dark eyes lifted to Petra’s face and stayed there, reading.
“Found what?” Maisie asked.
“Where we’re going to winter.”
Maisie followed Petra’s gaze up the slope, to where the boulders leaned together like a trapped prayer.
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