Night Season

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IN the east, dawn smeared a promise across the inky sky, but air and earth were dark yet. At an abandoned house just outside Midland, Texas, a pair of headlights shut off. A man and a woman climbed out of a 2005 Toyota Corolla.

"I keep thinking we've forgotten something," the woman said as she popped the trunk. She was tall and angular, with a runner's build and with strong shoulders—not pretty, but striking. She wore jeans, hiking boots, and a dark sweater; no makeup. Her hair was long and straight, a medium brown; her skin, an indeterminate tan that looked more Anglo than not; but she had the broad, high cheeks and strong nose of her mother's people, the Dine. Navajo, as outsiders named them. "I always forget something."

The man gave her a singularly sweet smile. He, too, was tall, angular, and athletic, his only remarkable facial feature, his eyes. The gray of a winter sky, they were heavily lashed and set off by the dark slashes of his brows. Some might guess him to have Native American blood as well, based on his coppery skin and black hair. They would be wrong.

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