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Show CHRYSALIS PAGE 227 we can't hold any more. Ginger is eight, dark and brown. I am four, pale and blonde. We never see the sheepherder we follow, but his little dog runs ahead of us barking at the sheep. We walk slowly, following behind and picking wildflowers. We cross the railroad tracks. We swing on a long wooden gate that creaks and bends when we climb on it. It hangs loose on the high posts of the empty sheep corral. We walk slowly along beside the train tracks. I am forbidden to play here. The wind blows. I can smell the flowers, I can feel the heat as the sun curls down. "This way," Ginger calls. But every way looks the same to me. It is all dust and brush and sky. and one way is like another. I run, and all the flowers I picked scatter around my feet. "Wait! This way!" Ginger calls. But I can't hold myself here. I can't stop running. Lizards run out of the bushes and their tails leave little winding trails in the sand. Ginger tries to pick up the flowers I dropped, but there are too many of them. The red sunset is accompanied by bats from the foothills. They whirr and dive in quiet circles over my head. Bats get in your hair! I cry out in fright, and warm water swirls out and runs down my legs. I dance around, running and turning. The |