Yolanda awoke, her dreams leaving her wet and exhausted. A slow smile split her lips; what would the Padre say about such lust found in the heart of a pious woman? She let out a sharp bark of a laugh. She was thirsty and pushed her bulk out of the rocker, groaning as the cramped muscles of her legs prepared for the load.
The mother was worried. It had been a long time since she had eaten and her milk was drying up. One pup had been born dead, two more had died. Of the two left, the male might make it, but the female was weak.
She caught a scent, faint, a while past. She lifted her head, sniffing the air for direction. She followed until the scent was a memory, turned and slunk back to her den.
That night the little pup died. The mother carried it out to a depression she carved quickly into the sand. Worn and hungry, she rested as the last pup suckled and fell into sleep. She arose and went out, unburied the still form and ate.
The figure had taken on a more definite shape, though the hardness of the natural land softened his edges to charcoal. She shaded her eyes, cutting the glare of the early evening sky, its turquoise and coral like jewels set in the fine black-veined silver of the rocky horizon. He carried no baggage, ran hatless.
She scowled. Charcoal smoke wisps trailed behind him.