She looked up at him, wonderingly. "I think of a small town. You think of a different world. Why is that, Bill?"
"You're tired, maybe." He grinned down at her. "You've been on your feet eight hours."
"That makes me think of a small town?"
"Contentment," he said. "Small towns are contented."
"And a different world—that's exciting, isn't it?"
"Sometimes it's dangerous."
"I see." She was quiet for a while. Then, "I never asked you where you were from, did I?"
"No."
"Small town? Or city." The latter held conviction.
He chuckled. "You're not even warm! Casa Verde, Arizona. A cluster of shacks in the middle of a desert, with sand-stone cliffs rising like mountains of the moon everywhere you looked, and black buzzards circling in a hot, brassy sky—"