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.
“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.
