8
I follow the directions on the note Al gave me. The ranch starts on the edge of town, but it's a fair old hike to the road that leads to the house. I lean over a crooked wooden riding fence painted white. The ranch sprawls further than the eye can see in all directions. To the naked eye, the fields seem to stretch all the way to the mountains—pale grass with a sprinkling of squat, dark-green trees. Cows gather in the distance. I hear the faint sound of mooing on a warm breeze. Suck in a lungful of manure in the air.
Ugh.
The entrance to the farm is on my right, marked by a green, wooden board sign that says Collins Ranch. The road into the ranch is dirt and dust for a good half a mile. It leads from the entrance to a tiny dot of a farmhouse.
I look above and see a huge, pink sky, the
