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said, “They’re from Camp Amache.”
    â€œBut isn’t that a long way east of here?”
    â€œThe government brings them in, puts them up, so they can work where needed.”
    â€œWill they come to your farm?”
    â€œYou mean our farm?”
    A second later, I nodded.
    â€œSure enough.”
    We passed through La Junta and drove the paved road south-west all the way to Trinidad. Ray said it had a feed store with the best prices, and therefore justified the farther traveling. But as I was driving, I realized he had chosen the route purposefully. Maybe he wanted to drive all that distance so I could see some variety in terrain, or maybe he wanted me to get a long drive under my belt, or maybe he wanted to observe my driving skills on less-traveled roads. I didn’t know or ask why. At any rate, I enjoyed taking the same route that had once been part of the Santa Fe Trail, the path that had brought pioneers, trappers, and traders into the former hunting grounds of roaming bands of Arapaho and Cheyenne. Now the road passed quickly through farmlands that changed to range lands, then through virgin prairie land still not tilled or grazed.
    By the time we reached Trinidad, I was used to the stiff clutch and loose steering of Ray’s truck. I even backed it into a spot between two others along the former trail, now Main Street.
    The town of Trinidad struck me as a conundrum of differences: adobe buildings next to brick Victorians, coal miners among sheep and cattle ranchers, citizens of Mexican descent among Anglos. Cobblestones covered the hilly streets of old downtown not far from the smoothly paved blacktop highway. Without a military base nearby, the town was distinctive for extremes of ages, too. Children ran in and out of the shadows cast by store-fronts, whereas a prevalence of older men and women seemed to thrive inside the shadows, becoming a denser part of the darkness themselves.
    â€œI’ve read about Trinidad,” I told Ray and handed him back the keys to the ignition. “This is one of the oldest towns in the state.”
    Ray headed for the feed store while I headed for the library. I hadn’t opened my book on Egypt yet; somehow I couldn’t do it here. But I was desperate for something to read.
    As I walked the downtown area, I noticed the lack of attention I received. People passing me on the street looked beyond me, as if one sideways glimpse had already told them I didn’t belong. During the war, we were taught that anyone could be a spy, even a nice-appearing or pleasant person. Posters everywhere featured Uncle Sam holding a finger to his lips. “Shhh.” Don’t give away secrets. “Loose lips sink ships.” The message was on the radio, in the newspapers, and in movies. But as I walked on, I doubted that distrust was the reason I was being ignored in this place. In the city, passersby on the street didn’t notice each other, either, but it had to do more with preoccupation and hurriedness. Here, I got the impression that newcomers or visitors simply didn’t matter.
    I sped up. By the time I reached the library, I was salivating like Pavlov’s dog. Inside the door, I paused for a minute, breathing it in. I loved everything about the library, even the smell of dust on the bookshelves. I loved fingering through tight card catalogs, perusing the rows of endless subject matter, lifting books so word-heavy they felt as though they might break my arm. In the local history section, I read up on Trinidad. First a favorite camping spot for nomadic tribes and later mountain men, the town became a stopping point for Conestoga wagons heading south over Raton Pass on the trail to Santa Fe.
    When I ran out of reading time, I signed up for a library card and checked out the most detailed local history book I could find, a basic cookbook, and The Sun Also Rises. I had read some of Hemingway’s later books, but had always intended to read