One day at the little house where the dowser used to live, a kind-looking man with a beard came carrying all he owned on an A-frame on his back.

Whatever he said, the mean way he said it, the way the words came out of his mouth, made his mouth crooked.

In a country that had no name because it had no borders, lived an old man who lived at the side of the road and made whistles.

It was back in the days when wagons were the thing, and wheels went round and Specific was a nice small town where three rivers came together to become one big river.

Out past everything, where endings and beginnings get mixed up, Ankton the Glass Man lived.

It was where the Dark Forest runs out of breath and the river, pretending to be a thief, steals much of daylight’s silver.

It happened in the town that had no butter, a town where little popcorn was sold and nearly every person was thin.

The boy had come out of the cave on the Island of a Thousand Rains after seven long days, his lips and cheeks drawn and pinched and his eyes yet full of darkness.

This story can begin anywhere; back there, up here, at the site of the Double-NN ranch, on the dusty roads beyond the ranch, with any one of the characters caught up by the presence of the colt, by the colt itself that caused the uproar.

This story can begin anywhere; back there, up here, at the site of the Double-NN ranch, on the dusty roads beyond the ranch, with any one of the characters caught up by the presence of the colt, by the colt itself that caused the uproar.