Flint wasn’t mushy, wasn’t much for words, but he looked after me as if I were his own. I rarely stayed on campus over holidays, and I spent every summer with him until he died when I was seventeen.

I loved those summers. I’d spend the entire school year counting down the days. Every summer, we’d travel for the first three weeks. One summer it was England, the next Germany, then Italy, then Australia. As I got older and could keep up, we got off the beaten path: hiking in Tibet, rafting in Peru, camping in Alaska.

The second half of our summers were far tamer, but just as much fun for me. We’d fly in to Albuquerque, New Mexico, rent a car, and take a three hour ride north to a sleepy little town called San Rosell. The next morning he’d send me to an old used book store and he’d go off for supplies. When he came back, we’d drive out to old man Sancho’s ranch.

There, we’d load up the two mules while Sancho saddled the horses for us. He was nice old guy, Sancho, and I think he lived alone. He was eager for conversation, always begged us to stay for lunch. But Flint was just as eager to get on the trail and always politely begged off.

“We got a long ride ahead of us, Sancho. Maybe next time?”

And he was right, it was a long ride. We typically spent the better part of three, sometimes four days, of meandering through the barren terrain of the Bisti Badlands to get to the cabin.

The same cabin I was headed to, right now. The cabin where I would spend the final days of my life.

A door opened behind me, so I eased back to look comfortable, dropping my eyelids to little more than a slit. The car was mostly empty, only six other passengers. A mother and young son, toward the front. An elderly man, sitting directly behind them. Across the aisle and back a couple rows, a young woman, maybe nineteen. Directly across from her, two Army recruits on leave.

I was keyed up, waiting.

After a moment, I could see…