This world will never be the same, the rider said. Did you know that? I know it. It aint now. FOUR DAYS LATER he set out north along the river with the remains of his brother trestled up in a travois he’d made from sapling poles dragging behind the horse. They were three days reaching the border. He rode past the first of the white obelisks marking the international boundary line west of Dog Springs and he crossed the ancient dry reservoir there.
