Jory Counts the Canyon Winks — At the first bend of Cacklejaw Canyon, Jory tapped the steering wheel twice and promised he would count only the winks made by his roof lamps—no cheating with chrome flashes, puddle glints, or his own sunglasses. Read the full story →
At the first bend of Cacklejaw Canyon, Jory tapped the steering wheel twice and promised he would count only the winks made by his roof lamps—no cheating with chrome flashes, puddle glints, or his own sunglasses. The truck idled with a throaty chuckle while warm dust smelled like toast left too long, and each lamp blinked against the pale stone: one, two, three, four. Jory wrote the numbers on his glove in pencil, because official mischief deserved unofficial paperwork.
The switchback widened, and the game grew legs. A bumper edge flashed under the noon sun; the winch hook winked from its square little jaw; even the tire lugs caught light one after another like a row of sly teeth. “Absolutely not,” Jory told them, laughing. “You are decorative interruptions.” He leaned closer to the windshield, listening to gravel tick under the giant tires, and kept his proud, foolish count to the lamps alone.
Then a shadow slid over the hood, soft as a curtain. Jory looked up and found the canyon wall above him wearing four bright spots of reflected light—his roof lamps, bounced back perfectly from tiny crystals in the rock. The canyon had invented a second set of winks. Jory erased his glove with his thumb, counted eight, and bowed from the driver’s seat. By the last bend, truck and cliff were blinking together, and Jory had to admit that official mischief had become unofficial paperwork for the whole of Cacklejaw Canyon.
