On cool summer mornings riding on a gentle breeze, a thick dark smell from far away abattoirs would hang in the air, almost solid. I could feel it cradling me. It was the smell of promise. No school for months, long hot days of riding carelessly wherever the mood would take me. Often that was far down the road where unseen by anyone over the age of twelve lay a tiny indentation, a hint of green contradicting the dry brown crackle of summer. This last resting place of the winter creek now just a puddle existed an entire universe.