He ran a ways through the tall grass, which clung to his wet skin as he slid past. Above, the sky ran until the far away hills, where it grabbed hold of Mount Shasta as it shot up, a few high clouds wrapping around the peak and bleeding gray into pale blue.
The field ended abruptly at a road. It was more rock than hard-pack dirt, and he sat and grabbed handfulls of red rock. Whenever a truck rumbled by, pebbles shot out and landed at his feet. They were hot to the touch, and he pocketed them.
Later he would go down to the reservoir and throw the rocks after the fish as they jumped, watching the sun dip behind Shasta and waiting for his girl, and they would build a fire and drink and count as many stars as they could.
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