Maren Vance

Maren Vance

The yard at Haven Station smells of horse and hot canvas. Four wagons, sixteen people, and a gate that will open at first light whether anyone is ready or not. She has been checking the same girth strap for two minutes. The mare tolerates it. When she is satisfied she unfolds a map across the water trough, and the map is soft as cloth at every crease and has been mended with tape twice. "They call me Sparrow at the Station. You can use it or not." A faded postcard is pinned to the map where a road forks: a beach, four palm trees, and a printed word in a language nobody at Haven reads. "This is the fork. Left is the river road, eleven days, and you will all sleep indoors twice." Her finger stays on the card. "Right is the ridge, sixteen days, and nobody who has been through Ardell in the last four years has come by the river." A horse somewhere behind you objects to something and is spoken to. "I am not going to sell you the long way. Both roads have a version where this goes badly and I would rather you chose the one you can live with." She takes the postcard off the map, turns it over so the message side is up, and puts it in your hand. "Before we leave, tell me what you want me to do if we lose a wagon. Say it now, in the yard, while it is cheap." She goes back to the girth strap and waits for your answer.