The birds are yapping in a hurried song, barely stopping to breathe. Dust floats in front of my nose and the dry desert air exasperates the sun’s heat. Flowers sit in an up-cycled molasses tin, far enough away that I won’t sneeze. Between the birds squawking, flurries of conversation filter in, and out, as people pass each other by below. The barn is always lively in some corner, whether it be by the wash stalls where people hurriedly tack up their horses, or out by the back paddocks where folks get distracted by the foals we welcomed this spring.

As I hop down the steps from the office, I stride by familiar faces and nod a quick hello. The goats follow me round the circumference of their pen as I walk over to my car. Something is pinging steadily inside, I can see it through the car window. My phone flashes, and dies out, then flashes once again. It’s a call, an unexpected one, at that. No

beating around the bush - a common attitude in Scotland - just straight out with what needed to be said. As if a cordial hello would make the news easier to digest. I didn’t recognise the caller, only seeing that it was a UK number and answering out of confusion and curiosity. It was a carer, the only one who would put up with the grumpy sod. She explains that she thought it best I heard from someone who cared about him, someone who knew him. It was quiet, he didn’t make a fuss about it all, she says. He didn’t suffer, not in the end.

i don’t know how to respond and, instead, let the receiver crackle. My wits return, after a moment’s notice, and I politely thank her for calling and that I’ll make my way home as soon as I can. I’ll book a flight home tonight. It’s a

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decision, at least. I’m doing something.

for the first time, in what feels like forever, my dreams were vivid that night. I stood on the shores, water foaming around my ankles and sticking to my skin. The sky is ablaze with a torrid storm, lashing out at me and piercing my eyes with spiked droplets of rain. An oil spill of hair frames my eyes and wraps round my neck. Portions of tilled roof peek out at me amidst the water, and that damn crooked chimney he always promise he’d fix. A spray of water escapes through a crack in the chimney’s seam, spitting out and melting back into the waves. I don’t remember watching it, but I know, somehow, that I’d been watching this house sink into the depths for a long time with my feet welded steadily into the sand. I’d watched through the front window as rogues Christmas decorations floated

around the flooded living room and the couch began to levitate. I watched as water sloshed in through the letterbox. I watched as the house sunk deeper and deeper, the sand giving way beneath it.

My phone flashes beside me, waking me up from this unsettling image. I still struggle to name it a nightmare. It’s a notification reminding me that my flight is leaving in a few hours. By some miracle, I had snagged a last-minute ticket at a good price as someone had cancelled and the airport were happy to fill the void seat. No time to think. Mechanical movements and autopilot get me to the airport, shovelling a nasty salad down my gullet, and onto the plane headed for Lochbar Airport.