Page 78 of The Fire Line

He lay awake for a long time that night.

* * *

The next morning, Harris rehung a gate that had been crooked since spring, dealt with the feed truck, replaced a leaking trough valve, and explained to a guest that easy trail did not mean a horse would refrain from moving unexpectedly. The day restored its usual proportions around him until Evan found him in Nell’s old office with an invoice open on the desk.

“You see the picture Priya sent?”

“Why would I?”

“You muted the production thread again?”

“Yup.”

“Of course you did.”

Evan held out his phone.

The photograph showed cattle moving through dust beneath portable lights. Jay stood near the edge of the frame with headphones around his neck and one hand raised while he spoke to someone outside the image.

Harris looked longer than necessary. “Looks like cattle.”

“That is generally what they’re filming.”

Harris handed the phone back.

Evan’s attention lingered for half a second. “North gate after lunch?”

“Yup.”

That was all.

Harris appreciated him for it.

The Iceland film waited until after dinner.

Jay had not exaggerated about the horse, though Harris disputed whether what he did onscreen qualified as riding. He sat too far forward, held the reins as if they might escape, and looked personally betrayed when the animal ignored him.

Harris watched that section twice.

For accuracy.

The rest followed fishing families, erosion, and a harbor being rebuilt farther inland. At one point somebody else held the camera while Jay walked beside an older fisherman, both men leaning into the wind with their hands shoved deep into their coats.

He looked younger there, with shorter hair, but the walk was the same.

Harris let the film run.

New York. Argentina. Iceland. Festivals in cities Harris had never visited and airports Jay probably moved through without thinking about them.

A slight unease that had begun developing the night before returned, less easy to dismiss.

Harris didn’t want Jay’s life. That part was simple. He liked waking up knowing what the day required. He liked understanding the land beneath his boots and being useful to people whose names he knew.

What he didn’t know was how any of that looked from the other direction.

How he looked from the other direction.

The thought irritated him. Harris had never needed a visiting filmmaker’s opinion to establish whether his life mattered, and he did not intend to start now.