Thousand: Four Hundred Sixteen

them. His hands, not really warmed, grip the grate and he rocks it back into place. Then he rubs his hands together again. They are starting to ache. “OK, dog,” Bernie says, as the wind picks up and the blobs thrusting up here and there over the paler soil quake and sway. His jaw quivers, he tightens his thin sport coat around himself, and, shoving his hands under his armpits, he tries to trot, but gives that up for a brisk shuffle after kicking a cactus and tearing a pant cuff on a spiny twig. “I bet there’s a trail