He stood still. He was by the corner of the hospital, where the ground fell away into the dry wash. Ahead of him he could see the wide sweep of desert, then the great wall of a Black Mesa and the peak he knew so well; far away, tremendous distances for a little boy, far enough to be rather blue at noontide. The space between was a whole unknown world to traverse. He looked around. No one was in sight. He slid into the arroyo.

He was out of bounds now, but it could appear to be only play. He occupied himself picking up brightly coloured stones, moving quietly, listening intently.No one had noticed. He worked his way along the dry river-bed to the bend. Then he ran. His leaping heart stopped him finally. Breathless and with his face burning hot, he crawled into shade and partial hiding under a cut-bank, lying close against the sand. He could not make himself wait there long, only until his lungs came under control, and then set out plodding, and a little farther along climbed up the west bank with infinite precaution.

Behind a quarter mile of scattering greasewood and chamisa the red-brick buildings stared at him. He crouched, frightened by their malignant dominance. He crawled away, then walked bent over till a rise of ground cut off even the slate rooftops and long chimneys. The sun hovered just above the edge of Black Mesa, which was turning to a deep blue and rising higher, closer, in the evening sky.Tlichisenili reached out to him. Steady, determined, he walked, no taller than the bushes, a tiny figure of seriousness on the face of the desert.

--WILLA CATHER

[Photograph: On the trail between Bridge Canyon and Oak Canyon]