She didn't look at him. Not today. Not ever. They'd shared the #15 bus every weekday for four years. Reliable as clockwork they glided through the streets together; alone. She with her Wall Street Journal, small frowns forming with the turn of each page. He with his headphones pumping out Led Zeppelin, eyes mostly closed.

Every few minutes he looked over at her, tried to catch her eye. Maybe today was the day. Maybe today she would put down the black and white pages of bad news and, only for a second, gaze at the man in the red jacket....

It confused them, the gnarled branch lying across rows of newly planted wheat. The tree had been healthy and the weather clear. A bob of bushy fur worked its way along the length of the fallen wood as a squirrel investigated the carnage.

Years from now, when the children had scaled the sheer rock face near their home, they'd think back to this day.

"And now where shall we climb?" the boy asked.

"There," the girl replied, a mountain peak under her finge