In the early seventies Greg and I moved back to the land. Here, no National Guard, no protests on the steps of Bank of America, no hash to smuggle into Isla Vista. We watched leaves turn copper and vermilion while rutting elk bellowed through air so still even the aspen refused to quiver. The radio played country western. The local paper came twice a month. Outside, winter drifts swallowed fence posts. Inside, I couldn’t feed the smoke-stained fireplace enough to warm the house and didn’t think about the rifle tucked behind his Gibson guitar in the bedroom closet. Nights shortened, river ice shattered, and every morning another newborn calf shimmered among rangy herds grazing in spring melt. With pickax and shovel, Greg tilled thawing dirt for our garden but never opened the packets of seeds. When he told me he wanted to leave this place, I thought he meant our home. It didn’t occur to me to hide the bullets.