With another belch of smoke, I lurched the truck into gear and made for the barn door. Still not recovered, her small frame slid across the vinyl bench seat as we gathered speed. As we clinched teeth, the truck lumbered through the door with a crack of dusty, splintering wood. It was a few moments before either of us exhaled.

“Well,” she breathed, “thank goodness for rotting wood.”

“And glow-y, engine repairing companions,” I added, glancing sideways at her. Her face ashened with a bashful response – at least her color was returning. Then glancing up into the rearview mirror, I could see a hazy cloud of light beyond the barn to the north, inching its way across the valley.

“They’re back there,” she said, without bothering to look.

“Looks that way,” I said, as we approached the gate at the main road. “From the number of lights, it looks like there’s twenty, maybe thirty -“

“Thirty-seven,” she blurted, in a voice louder than her usual. Then looking at me – “there’s thirty-seven of them.”