Every day from late June to the end of August (yes, every day) I’d pick Sam up in my dad’s Ford and we’d go down to our spot. It was everyone’s spot, really, but Sam liked to call it ours. She’d once told me she never felt more at home than out there, like it was the only place she belonged in the world.
The car was not good in the hills. It popped! and sputtered as it wrestled its way along the rough terrain of the narrow, winding roads cut from the Spanish countryside. As it neared the summit, it pulled off to the roadside where it was quiet but for the steam coming off the hood. The midday sun bathed the dry and patchy sloping hills of the valley. Whitewashed outcrops dotted the landscape, and above in the sky floated a few clouds, but not many. The man went around to open the hood while the woman walked to the cliff side and overlooked the valley. Across the valley was a small…