“I am not a state at war, and you are not my army!” He began to speak, then stopped short, searching my face, his eyes intent. “Am I not?” he said quietly. I opened my mouth to reply but found I couldn’t. The birds had come back, and a gang of house finches chittered at the foot of a big fir that grew at the side of the clearing. “You are,” I said reluctantly, and, standing up, wrapped my arms around him.
