9
Sedona
I step in yet another puddle and rain water soaks my shoes and socks. It’s rained all day and I’m not as excited as I expected to be walking along Montemartre tracing the steps of Picasso, Renoir, and Degas.
I don’t even know how much of Paris I took in as I wandered the streets today. My chest aches like someone punched me. A few Frenchmen give me odd looks, and I realize my wolf is whining. The only time she’s happy is when I think of Carlos—or fall asleep and dream of him.
This is Stockholm Syndrome. Right?
I stop at a sidewalk cafe to get some dinner and sink into a seat protected by a wide blue awning. Water pours from the edges, splashing my legs and gathering in little pools beside my table.
When rain comes in Tucson, we celebrate because the desert is always thirsty,
