He gathered the bones into his satchel, next to the compass that now spun calmly, pointing north again. As he climbed out of the canyon, the first true dawn he had seen in weeks bled over the Sierra de los Muertos. The wind, for the first time, was just wind.
Elías drew his revolver. The metal felt cold and childish. He pushed the cabin door open with his shoulder.
Mateo tilted his head. The gesture was perfect. Too perfect. “No? Then why do you hold my compass? Why do you wear my father’s ring on your finger? Why did you cross the Sierra and the Páramo and the canyon of black sand? For a stranger?”
