Lamb by Bonnie Nadzam

know.”
    “You do?”
    “You already told me that one.”
    He put his thumb and forefinger beneath her chin and lifted her face. “Look at me. We know the facts, right?” She nodded. “And we’re proceeding with due caution, right?”
    “Yes.”
    “Because we love this world. And everybody in it.”
    “Yes.”
    “Good.” He let go her head, put his hand on top of her hair. “So we’re all saddled up pushing on. Because it’s what people like you and me do.”
•  •  •  •  •
    He drove into the night, along a cursive pass etched in granite, above the stands of green-fingered oaks and red-beaded hawthorns and all the aspen, above the trees that listed to the southeast, needled black along one side, twisted and deformed by forbidding glacial wind, and between great planed walls of rock dressed in little aprons of snow and shattered stone sliding down onto the road.
    The rock walls flattened as they crested the pass, and they slowly descended through the sparse coniferous trees, silver needles flashing mutely in thecar light. They wound down past the neon yellow road signs and steep grade warnings and through the pines again and back to where the aspen were still yellow and pale green.
    “It’s scary up here.”
    “Well.” He watched the road. “It’s severe, is what it is. And high.”
    “How high?”
    “Twelve, thirteen thousand feet. That’s over two miles high.”
    “I know that.”
    “I forget sometimes how smart you are.” He glanced at her and back to the road. “Know what happens now that we’re over the top of the mountain? All the rivers start running the other way.”
    “Big whoop.”
    “And birds over here are much bigger. Turkey vultures and eagles and owls and hawks.”
    “Bears?”
    “Yes. And cattle.”
    “We’ve seen that.”
    “Not like this. Over here, they’re twice the size, and all over the mountains, in the trees, and swimming in the creeks up to their necks.”
    “No way.”
    “Forest cattle.”
    “You’re lying.”
    “In late fall, guys like me come out and hunt hamburger.”
    “Yeah, right.”
    “You watch,” he said. “See if you don’t catch a glimpse of huge furry cows peering back at you through the trees, their beautiful velvet ears stapled with plastic tags, thick straight hair hanging down around their faces.”
    “I love this.”
    “Oh, you dear.” He glanced at her again. “That is the best thing I’ve heard in years.” For a minute he was quiet. “It really is,” he said. “And don’t think that’s an easy thing to admit.”
    He let her drift in and out of sleep until they came to a tiny town perched on the green slopes of a little river valley. It was very cold, clear black. Huge wind scraped through the dark grassy bowl, rocking the truck where he parked it outside a small, dim-lit motel. Tommie snoozed in the warm truck while he checked them in, and when he opened the passenger door for her and she stepped out, the wind took her off balance.
    “Calling Mr. Sandman,” he said, catching her beneath the arm.
    “Don’t,” she said, looking up at him, the whites of her eyes bright in the dark. “I hate that guy.”
    “I know,” he said. “Me too.”
    “Where are we?”
    “Encampment.”
    “It’s so dark.”
    “Look up.”
    “Whoa.” They stood in the open, she leaning against him, tucked into the crook of his arm, a wash of stars spilling above them. “I’ve never seen so many.”
    “I know you haven’t.” Their chins tipped up in the dark.
    “It makes you feel like, what way is up?”
    “It doesn’t get like this at home. Not with all those city lights.” He squeezed her closer. “Come on. Let’s get out of the cold.”
    He took their gear and led her through a flimsy, blue-painted motel door and locked it behind them. It was musty, reeked of cigarettes and Pine-Sol. Lamb cranked up the heat and went into the bathroom counting backwards while she took off her blue jeans and yellow sweater and