Chapter Eight
Molten Gold
Boulder is only thirty miles from Denver, and Nolan narrates along the way. Several long wooden slatted frames are propped up at forty-five-degree angles in a dry grassy field next to the highway. Coming from Texas, I think they are some kind of fancy wind-breaks. They’re snow fences Nolan says. I glance at them, fantastically unaware that five months later, I’ll see them again, buried in drifts.
When we slide into Boulder, Nolan turns into a shopping center parking lot with a couple of free-standing fast-food restaurants and an L-shaped row of businesses dominated by a Goodwill Thrift Store. We park across from Noodles and Company. My luggage is in the back of the car and Nolan leaves the windows half-open. After we stand in line to order, I pick a table where
