JUNE 14, 1877 — The Edges of Things

I walked the perimeter of our camp at dawn, just to move. Just to breathe. The edge of the bluff gave way to a deep ravine, the kind of place where echoes go to die. I thought about stepping closer. I thought about whether I would feel fear.

Billy found me there, silent as always. He didn’t speak either—just stood beside me, watching the canyon eat the light. I said, “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to fall and never hit the bottom.”

He didn’t flinch. “Maybe you already have.”

And then he walked away.

We didn’t speak again that day.