He went grinding on up into the pines; the Jeep humped painfully over roots and rocks. Finally in thinning air he reached the fork. Little shingle signs pointed both ways: RANGER STATION. CAMPGROUND. He went through the trees toward the station.

Smyley was at the foot of the fire tower waiting. “Heard you coming a mile back. You trying to wreck the Jeep or just set a new land-speed record?”

Mackenzie got out. The dog came out from under the cabin and stretched lazily and came forward to have her ears scratched. Mackenzie said, “Good pooch,” and started to unload the supplies from the back of the Jeep.

Smyley waddled over. “Let me give you a hand.”

Mackenzie didn’t want help but there was no way to get rid of the relief man until the Jeep was unloaded. They hauled the grocery sacks inside the cabin.

Smyley put his fists in the small of his back and flexed his spine, rearing far back. “Want some help putting it away?”

“No thanks.”

“Just talk a blue streak, don’t you, Sam.”

“Sure.” Mackenzie went outside and waited until Smyley gave it up and came out.

Smyley gave him an accusing look. “Some of us take kindly to company when we get a chance at it.”

“Sorry, Smyley. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m in a solitary mood, that’s all.”

“What’s bugging you, Sam?”

“This and that. Never mind.”

“Tell me one thing, will you?”

“What?”

“Where do you go on your days off?”

“Here and there.”

“Jesus Christ.” Smyley rubbed his big belly and glanced down at Mackenzie’s feet. “Nice old dog. She got a name?”