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The first time Elias Crowe saw the town again, it looked smaller than his grief remembered.
From the switchback above the valley, Pine Hollow sat along a thin creek like a tired animal, ribs showing through weathered boards and empty windows. Chimney smoke rose in weak strands. A wagon creaked over the main road. Somewhere a dog barked and then quit, as if even barking cost too much.
Elias kept his mule steady and his eyes forward. Seven years alone in the Medicine Bow high country had taught him that looking too long at anything could become a habit, and habits became attachments. Attachments were how you got broken.
