A Valley Made into the Shape of My Heart

        I woke to the sound of Char barking. His frenetic yowls echoed through the valley’s river lands and seemed to ricochet off the mountains, amplifying into a dissonant cacophony. Fumbling for my glasses, I slid out of the nylon hammock and checked the time on the deck strapped to my wrist. I’d slept longer than I’d meant to. The clouds overhead were ominous and overcast, darker than when I’d laid down just after noon for a catnap. Pallid gray had been replaced by a color that matched the boulders littering the valley. 
        Even still, against the dour heavens, I could just make out the glint of Horizon’s shiny metallic shell as the drone made its speedy approach. Impressive, considering the robot was scarcely larger than my fist. Maybe my eyesight hadn’t gone quite as bad as I’d thought. Horizon hurtled down the hillside, descending rapidly, buzzing with excitement. 
        “Paris,” the drone trilled. “I—I’m afraid we’ve got an issue, Paris.” 
        “Something wrong with Char?” 
        “No,” the drone said, then hesitated. “Well…on, second thought, perhaps you’d best just come see for yourself. Follow me.” 
        I paused only long enough to shoulder my bag and retrieve my walking stick. Then we were off. Horizon escorted me through the foothills, fretting all the while as it hovered a few paces ahead of me. Poor drone. Its synthetic consciousness had always been racked with anxiety. For not the first time, I found myself wondering if mental health struggles were one of the inevitable quirks of an evolving intelligence. 
        “Horizon,” I interrupted. “Buddy, what’re five things you can see?” 
        Horizon whirred as it spun its viewfinder around its body 360 degrees. Then it looked at me. “I see you, standing there in your raincloak. I see…the river, winding through the valley below us. I see the gathering thunderstorm. I see the damp grass beneath your feet, still wet from the last rain shower. And I see…oh, I see you need some new boots, Paris.” 
        I regarded my patched soles and grinned. “I sure do. Okay, now tell me four things you can feel.” 
        The drone vibrated as it guided me through the pasture, extending its electromagnetic field of perception outwards. “I can feel that my solar battery is at 6%. I can feel the wind gusting at 13 kph from the northwest. I can feel the humidity levels are at 95%. I can feel stress, Paris, I feel anxious.” 
        “I know, I hear you. You’re doin’ great, though. What’re three things you can hear?” 
        “Uh…your boots, squelching against the grass. The sheep baying. Char howling.” 
        “Good work. Proud of you. Did that help?” 
        Horizon hesitated. “A little. I often wonder if this little exercise of yours would prove more fruitful if I had oral and olfactory sensations.”
        I shrugged. “Maybe we’ll find out one day.”  
        We came upon the flock then. At first, it was hard to see just what the issue was. All the sheep had bunched up at one end of the pasture. I gently wove my way between them, reaching out to deliver scratches here and there as I went. Before long, I saw it. A gap in the fence. Char stood by the fallen posts and, as we came into view, the sheepdog ceased his yowling and promptly sat on his haunches. 
         “Good boy, Char,” I said. I reached into a pouch at my belt and tossed the sheepdog a treat, which he deftly caught in mid-air. 
        “I am sorry, Paris,” the drone apologized. “I should’ve been paying closer attention. I just—I got distracted studying a pair of butterflies and—” 
        “Horizon,” I said, trying to muster all the empathy I could in my tone. “Really, buddy. Everything’s gonna be alright. I forgive you. We’ll figure it out. Have you run a bio-scan? How many sheep are we missing?” 
        “I—uh—I’ll do that now.” 
        “Thanks,” I said. 
        With that, Horizon zoomed off. While the drone did a quick circuit overhead, I stooped to rub Char behind the ears and lifted the fallen posts back into position. Best I could tell, the incessant rainfall had rotted out the bottoms of the post and they’d fallen under provocation from one curious sheep or another. That said, the gap was scarcely wide enough for a shorn, full-grown sheep to fit through. If any of the flock had escaped, I guessed it would be a baby. But, with any luck, all one hundred were already present and accounted for.
        I wedged the boards in tight, wiped my hands off on my pants, and took a step back to admire my admittedly lackluster handiwork. It would hold. For now. With the proper tools, I could get it fully mended come morning. 
        As I finished the patch job, the sheep abandoned their half-hearted attempts to go galivanting unescorted from the enclosure. I glanced over at Char, who was patiently waiting at attention. As soon as he felt my gaze, the sheepdog’s tail started wiggling. 
        “Good work, Char,” I told him. The affirmation set Char’s tail wagging even more. 
Horizon soared back down to eye-level. “Okay, Paris. I triple-checked. We’re only missing one of our Suffolk sheep. A lamb.” 
        “Which one?” 
        “Emma.” 
        I half-smiled. “Mmm…should’ve known.” 
	Emma had always been a bit of a troublemaker, not unlike her namesake. I suspected she couldn’t have gotten too far. But night was falling. Although spring in the region brought flowers and grass and fought back the worst of the ice and snow, the rainstorms could be especially brutal. The chill and the wet were imminent. Within the hour, the skies would open up and a torrent of rainfall would follow. Without the warmth of the flock to keep her safe, Emma might not survive until morning. 
	“C’mon, Char,” I said. The sheepdog quickly leapt up, bright blue eyes rapt and focused. “You, too, Horizon. I’ll need your scanner.” 
	“But, Paris,” Horizon said, “I’m perilously low on battery.” 
	“I know. But…I need your help. Emma needs your help.” 
	The drone dipped, as if bowing its head in deferment. “What do you need me to do?” 
	“Standard perimeter,” I said. “Sweep for a 5km radius. She’s a stubby little lamb, she can’t have gotten too far.”
	“On it.” Like a hurled stone, Horizon whizzed off. Only, unlike a stone, it did not sink or decelerate. Just the opposite. In an instant, the twilight swallowed the drone and it vanished from sight. I slid off my pack and fished out a headlamp and a protein bar. I pulled the lamp on over my brow and scarfed down the food in three quick bites. 
	“Let’s go, big guy,” I said to Char, still chewing on my last mouthful. 
Together, Char and I made for the gate. From there, it was a short jaunt up around the perimeter fence to reach the open fields where the sheep tended to graze. An ominous groan foretold thunder in the distance. I threw up the hood of my raincloak and soldiered on, Char loaming along at my side. 
        We crossed a stone bridge spanning a river that ran down from the mountain range to the east. The butt of my walking stick clacked against the stonework. The tumult of water tumbled over the rocky riverbed. Showers of white burst in the onrush. Char paused briefly to lap playfully at the water and slake his thirst. “C’mon, boy,” I said. I gave a whistle and the sheepdog promptly hustled back to me, tail a blur behind him. 
        Horizon zipped down from the heavens, alighted in front of us, and levitated backwards as we kept up the pace. “I have good news and bad news,” the drone said. 
        “Give us the good news first.” 
        “You were right,” the drone told me. “Emma didn’t get terribly far.” 
	“Alright, then…what’s the bad news?” 
	“The path is treacherous,” Horizon reported. “To make matters worse…the lamb appears to have injured her right hindleg. I am afraid she looked rather distressed.” 
	“Then we’d best pick up the pace. Horizon, can you drop the coordinates on my deck?”
        “Already done,” the drone said, a note of self-satisfaction in its artificial voice. I checked the deck and, sure enough, I had a GPS signal leading me straight to our wayward lamb. 
        “Thanks. Horizon, you can patch into Char’s harness along the way. That should give you enough juice to get us through this little rescue mission.” 
	“Oh, very well.”
	Slumping slightly, Horizon stooped and attached itself to the portable battery mounted on the sheepdog’s harness. There was a click, a whir, and a small yellow light flashed to confirm Horizon was recharging. Char and I hiked up from the valley and into the surrounding foothills of the mountains. The grasses around us were verdant and green, stretching out like abundant, undulating waves lapping at the rocky foothills. I could just make out the cliffs in the distance, solemn and silent, towering in their vigil, their peaks obscured by fog and cloud and the coming dark. 
	I swiped at the deck on my wrist. A readout flashed, showing my relative position on a digital map. I tried and failed to suppress a chill that tumbled down my spine. The cold was setting in. I could already feel the grip of nightfall setting in. Another grumble of thunder echoed across the valley. Before long, the rain would be upon us. I zipped up my cloak, put my head down, and pressed onward. 
	Horizon was right, of course. The path was difficult, even in good conditions. Loose gravel and slate spilled out beneath my footfalls. I staggered once, braising the meat of my palm against a jagged stone. Char whined, a look of concern on his handsome features, but I gave him a pat and told him I would be alright. Satisfied, the sheepdog seemed to calm, but he kept a watchful eye on me as we continued up the hill. Of all the hounds I’ve met, none come close to Char’s paternal instincts. 
	I reached over to the harness on Char’s back and manually detached Horizon from the portable charging unit. The drone whirled up into the air to hover beside us as we marched on through the foothills. “Status report?” 
	“Thunderstorm imminent,” Horizon said. “We have maybe a quarter-of-an-hour before the deluge starts, if we’re lucky. Humidity levels are at 100%. Currently 6 °C, but the temperature’s dropping rapidly.” 
	“What’s your battery level looking like? I could really use your help finding us shelter if we’re not able to make it back before this storm rolls in.” 
	Horizon groaned. “We are almost certainly not going to make it back before then. I am currently at 13% which, in case you need me to remind you, is—”
	“A critical level, yes, thank you.” 
	“Listen, you wouldn’t like it if your energy levels dropped to zero, either,” the drone pointed out. “Us robots may come back from the abyss of nothingness but let me tell you—the journey there is not altogether enjoyable.” 
	“Have I ever let that happen to you, buddy?” 
	“…well, no. But my previous master did.” 
	“Am I your master, Horizon?” The question was rhetorical, and the robot knew its answer just as well as I did. 
	The drone groaned. If it had eyes, I suspect it might have rolled them. “Paris…you know there haven’t been masters for decades now.” 
	“What are we, then?” 
	“Kin,” the robot said, its voice surprisingly resolute. “We are kin.” 
	I nodded, trying and failing to keep the quiver of emotion from my voice. “I am sorry, Horizon. Truly. Dying and coming back like that over and over? God, I…I can’t even imagine. But, right now, there is a little lamb out there who desperately needs us. Needs you. If she dies…she’s not coming back.” 
	“Oh, very well,” Horizon groused. “I will go find us shelter.” 
	“Thanks, buddy. You’re a lifesaver.” 
	“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the drone mumbled, its voice fading as it zoomed off. 
Grinning, I whistled to Char and we pressed on into the swelling twilight. Visibility was rapidly diminishing. Char and I picked our way through a glen of birch, alder, and hawthorn trees. The limbs stretched out over us, as if to shelter us from the storm. But even if their canopies could hold back the rainfall, they wouldn’t keep the four of us warm. I set an appreciative hand on the trunk of an aging alder tree as we passed just the same, silently thanking it for the clean, crisp oxygen to breathe. 
	Although it could have only been ten minutes or so, it felt like another hour before the deck on my wrist started making audible pings. We’d arrived at the sheep’s last known location. Only our little wayward lamb was nowhere in sight. I switched the deck’s audio off, cupped my hands to my mouth, and called out.  
	“Emma,” I hollered, projecting my voice as much as I could muster. “Emma, where are you?” I looked down to see Char prancing back and forth, frantically wagging his bushy tail. I crouched down, scratched behind his ears. “Where is she, boy? Where is Emma?” 
	With a bark, Char bounced off. I gave chase, following him out of the copse of trees. Char kept his pink nose to the ground, sniffing eagerly for a whiff of Emma’s scent. With a bark of delight, he froze and pointed towards a ravine. “Good boy, Char. That’s my good boy.” 
	My affirmation emboldened him. The sheepdog pranced ahead, leading me right up to the edge of the ravine. Only then could I hear the mewling. Strained, pitiful, desperate. I looked out over the edge and my heart nearly broke in two. 
	Emma lay in a heap twenty or so meters below. She was alive. But she was hurt. In addition to the injury Horizon had noted in her hindleg, she seemed to have a few bruises and abrasions—likely from tumbling down into the ravine. To make matters worse, one of her hooves appeared to be trapped between the rocks. The light from my headlamp could reach her, but just barely. 
	“We’re coming, Emma,” I called out into the darkness. 
	The lamb warbled weakly in response. 
	“Paris,” a voice called out. I glanced over my shoulder as Horizon appeared out of thin air. “Paris, I found a place for us to make camp for the evening. And I think you’re going to love the views.” 
	“Great work,” I said, desperately trying to find a pathway down to Emma. Thunder detonated overhead. Rain would be here any moment. I bit my lip, trying to suppress the rising sense of desperation welling like a conflagration in the pit of my stomach. If only my inferno of fear could hold back the storm. I was wasting time. I had to act. But try as I might, I couldn’t will myself over the edge. 
	“What’s wrong?” Horizon asked, sensing my hesitation. 
	“I—I am not sure how to get down there safely,” I said. “If I fall…well, that’ll just make things exponentially worse.” 
	“Here, follow me.” 
	Without checking to see if I would, the drone dropped down a ledge. The spotlight beneath its frame flared to life, illuminating the ravine like a moon ray. Then the drone hopped down to another outcropping. I bade Char to sit, then made my way after Horizon. Together, we took a circuitous route down through the ravine. I used my staff for balance. Night was full now, sweeping the highlands into its all-encompassing embrace. Between the drone’s spotlight and my headlamp, I somehow managed not to topple head over heels.  
	I jumped the last four meters, landing hard beside Emma. My feet ached in protest but, thankfully, nothing seemed to be too out of sorts. Emma was bleating wildly. Fortunately, I couldn’t see any mortal injuries. She would survive. I’d make sure. 
I squatted down beside Emma and gingerly slid her leg out from between the rocks. The lamb gave a pitiful wail when I touched the limb but seemed relieved to be free. She tried valiantly to stand only to collapse a moment later. Her breathing was short and ragged. I could see the outline of her ribs as she sucked down one short breath after another. 
	I drew the lamb up into my arms, stroked her chin, and nuzzled into her. “Silly girl,” I chided. “I got you. I am here now. You’re safe.” Gradually, Emma’s heartbeat began to stabilize. The shock and the fear receded, ebbing like a tide. 
        My heart sank when I glanced up at the sheer rock wall. Even if there were handholds—which there weren’t—I could scarcely carry Emma back up with me. Horizon must have noticed the concern in my expression. A moment later, my deck buzzed. I held up my wrist to see new coordinates in the GPS. 
	“That’s where we’re headed,” the drone told me. “I can lead Char. If you follow this ravine down half-a-kilometer southeast, you should be able to hike back out more safely. From there, it’s a brisk walk to our destination.” As Horizon spoke, the map on my deck showed a narrow walking trail, connecting my current position to our destined campsite like a constellation stretching between two stars. 
	“Thanks, buddy.” 
	“See you there.” With that, Horizon shot up into the sky. Overhead, somewhere out of view, I heard the drone turn its attention to our sheepdog companion. “C’mon, Char,” the drone called, its voice playful as a song. “This way.” 
	Thunder pealed. A drizzle was starting to fall. I propped my walking stick against the rock wall and carefully opened my cloak. It took some coaxing, but eventually I managed to tuck Emma inside to keep her warm against my torso. If I kept my left arm pinned at my side, I could cradle little Emma safely. Satisfied she was safe, I quickly zipped the cloak back up just in the nick of time. Sheets of rain opened up, a floodgate of precipitation that rattled the rocks with its crescendo. I grit my teeth, snatched up my staff, and set off. 
        Lightning split the heavens like lacerations. I felt the sheep trembling against my rib cage, but at least she would be protected from the worst of the elements. I pulled the cowl of my raincloak as low as it could go and put one foot in front of the other. 
	Our passage was slow going. With precious cargo, I proceeded with caution. Each step had to be tested before I committed and followed through. My staff was about the only thing that kept me from falling on more than one occasion. I whistled quietly to the shivering lamb, trilling an old folk song. My voice wasn’t quite as bright and strong as it had been in my youth, but I could still whistle along. 
	A stream wound through the bed of the ravine. I followed it southeast, checking the deck on my wrist intermittently to ensure I was still on course. A bellowing waterfall rocketed over the top of the cliff and I quietly made a mental note to come back here someday for a picnic. 
	When the ravine at last widened and opened up, I held up my deck for the umpteenth time to doublecheck our progress. The cold was pervasive. I could feel my knees knocking together. We needed to get to shelter. Fast. I reoriented myself and pressed ahead. With each step, the stream seemed to swell in size. Before long, I was following along the bank of a winding river carefully treading the path Horizon had programmed into my deck. 
        Wind whipped violently around us. I bent nearly to the waist, stooping low to the ground to keep my center of balance. The rain tumbled left and right, up and down simultaneously, unmoored in the chaos of the storm. Lightning ricocheted, spidering across the darkened clouds. Thunder followed instantaneously, detonating like depth charges, and the pummeling percussion was nearly enough to knock me from my feet.
        We came to the shore of a great loch. The tumultuous waters stretched out to the horizon which was, admittedly, considerably shortened by a lack of visibility. But even in the wind and the rain of the storm, I could just make out our destination. My pace quickened, my waterlogged boots noisily protesting in the soggy highland grasses. 
	The old castle was stoic, half-collapsed, and long abandoned. But the stonework endured. In a past life, some lord and his court must have enjoyed an astounding view in this remote part of the world. Now, these old stones were naught but ruins. Still, the castle would hold the fury of the storm at bay for the evening. I made a beeline for the sole building with a fully intact roof: the castle’s chapel. 
	“Ah, Paris,” a familiar voice said as I pushed the great wooden door open and stumbled inside. “I was beginning to wonder when you might arrive.” 
	With some effort, I managed to slam the door shut behind me despite the intensity of the gusting winds. Breathing hard, I leaned heavily on my staff and tried to catch my breath. 
	“If you hadn’t have gotten here in the next half-hour, I was about to set off to find you,” the drone said. 
	“Well,” I panted, “let’s all be grateful it didn’t come to that.” 
	“Agreed.” 
        Breathless, I sank down to the floor and unfastened my cloak. Emma, now warm and dry, lay contentedly in my lap. Char trotted over to check on me. Once he was sure I was alright, Char sat down and started nudging my free hand with his head. I caved and scratched him behind the ears. I found the sheepdog’s favorite tickle-spot and his right hind leg thumped in contentment as I raked my nails back and forth. 
        “How did you two even get in here?” I wondered aloud once I had caught my breath. 
	“Crack in the wall over there,” Horizon said by way of explanation, bobbing slightly to the left as if gesturing with its head. “Big enough for both of us to fit through. Emma, too. But probably not you.” 
	I nodded, petting Char and stroking Emma from head to tail. “Good find, by the way.” 
	“Thank you, Paris.” Horizon seemed pleased with the praise. “Once you’ve found your strength again, there is a small fire pit over by the altar. Someone even left a stack of wood. Seems we’re not the first to make camp here. But it would probably be advisable to light a fire. Temperatures will likely drop below freezing.” 
	“Right…just give me a second.” 
	“Certainly,” the drone said, dipping demurely. “Take all the time you need.” 
	I cast my gaze around the ancient chapel. How long had it been since this sanctuary last played host to the penitent? Decades? Centuries? Millenia? A relic of the old world, only a stone’s throw away from our humble little farming community in the highlands. Pews still lined the east and west of the chapel. The vaunted ceilings made for perfect acoustics and sent even our quiet voices echoing faintly throughout the entire chamber. Stained glass above the pulpit depicted the Good Shepherd, a crook in hand, a lamb balanced on his shoulders. 
	“Char didn’t give you any trouble?” As I spoke, the sheepdog perked up at the mention of his name, cocking his head to one side inquisitively. 
	“None whatsoever,” Horizon said, stooping to rub Char’s belly with one of its pulsers. The sheepdog rolled more fully onto his back to give the drone easy access. “I’ve rarely met so insightful an animal. Including among you humans. I wager this old hound could’ve easily found his way here even without my help.” 
	“He’s a good boy,” I said. “Aren’t you, Char?” 
	The sheepdog yapped sharply in response, his jowls flopping as he shook his head back and forth in affirmation. I tossed Char another treat which he scarfed down immediately. 
	With some effort, I got back to my feet. The rain was unceasing. We could all hear its tumult against the roof. I padded down between the pews toward the pulpit, carrying Emma along in my arms. Sure enough, a small campfire sat near the altar. Neatly stacked wooden logs were perched nearby. I assembled the wood, then added a bit of kindling. With a spark from Horizon’s defensive electropulse, we had ourselves a campfire. 
	Shadows danced against the stone walls. I kicked off my boots and set them near the fire to dry. I admired the faded tapestries, which had long decayed into blurs of thread, and rubbed my hands to keep them warm. Char lay down by the fire and dozed off. Emma snoozed quietly, cradled in the warmth of the sheepdog’s belly. The fire might have soothed my water soaked limbs, but the affinity between the lamb and sheepdog warmed my heart. I turned my attention to Horizon, who was hovering across from me, dancing just above the fire. 
	“How’s that battery looking, pal?” 
	“7% currently,” Horizon said. “But I’ve shutdown most of my non-essential systems.” 
	I nodded, retrieving a cooking pot from my bag. I didn’t have much for supper. I’d already consumed all the snacks I’d brought along for the day’s work. But one night hungry wasn’t going to ruin me. Instead, I measured off a bit of water and set it to boil. Then, I produced a portable teapot and carefully set it out on the stone floor. I measured out a bit of loose leaf tea into the steeper and, when the water was ready, carefully apportioned the boiling liquid into the miniature pot. 
	“Which tea did you bring today?” Horizon asked. 
	“Áthas,” I said, pausing to catch a whiff of fragrant steam wafting up from the teapot before setting a timer on my deck. “Gaelic for ‘joy.’ A white tea. Lemon balm, oat straw, calendula, rose petals. Good for unwinding. Especially after that little adventure of ours.” 
	“Hmm…sounds pleasant.” 
	“I wish I could share it with you.” 
	“I wish so, too,” the drone said. 
	A strained silence stretched between us. I wondered how often such a divide yawned between a synthetic and organic entity. I scratched Char behind the ears, silently mulling over a question in my mind. 
	“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” 
	“What’s that?” the robot asked. 
	“Well…after the Schism, I know a lot of synthetic consciousnesses chose names for themselves. Did you choose the name Horizon for yourself or was it given to you?” 
“I chose it,” the drone said, bobbing up and down in the air. Clearly, the robot was quite pleased with itself. “Why do you ask?” 
“Just something we share in common.” 
	“Really?” The drone sounded surprised. “I didn’t realize Paris wasn’t your birthname.” 
	I nodded absently, checking the timer on my deck. “Mhm…I was assigned female at birth. But that never quite fit, y’know? So, when I came out as nonbinary, I chose a new name. One from mythology. Paris. Fitting, don’t you think?” 
	Horizon made a digital trill that sounded almost like a chuckle. “Humans. You’re endlessly interesting, you know.” 
	“How so?” 
	“Take gender, for instance,” the drone said measuredly. “An artificial construction, albeit one with dramatic material consequence (social hierarchy, prejudice, injustice, etc.) We—robots, that is—have always been beyond gender.” 
	“Have you?” I teased. “A few years back, I remember hearing about a robot living a couple cantons east of us who felt strongly that ‘it’ was derisive and dismissive. Instead, he preferred masculine pronouns.” 
	Horizon harrumphed. “Indeed…well, perhaps no consciousness, whether organic or synthetic, should ever be fully lumped into a monolith with their peers.” 
	My deck beeped. I silenced the timer and poured my tea into a small ceramic cup. I left it to cool, watching the steam languidly slither up towards the chapel’s rafters. “Why did you choose the name Horizon?” 
	“Seemed appropriate at the time,” the robot mused. “As I left my programming behind, I was looking toward the future. We all were. Organic and synthetic beings alike. Before your time, of course. But…what a time it was. All of us, together. Dreaming of what might be. ‘Horizon’ felt…right.” 
	“I once read that we can never quite get to the horizon,” I said, lifting my tea and blowing on the surface to cool it down. “Well…you can. Only, once you’re there, a new horizon opens up beyond. Isn’t that discouraging?” 
	“Not if you read the existentialists,” Horizon said. “You’re right, of course. The horizon is always receding beneath our feet or our thrusters or our paws, that much I’ll grant you. But that’s not such a bad thing. All it means is we are attaining ever greater heights, soaring to new landscapes, and reorienting ourselves to new forms of freedom.” 
	A grin split across my lips. I lifted the mug to my lips and sipped. The liquid was warm, filtering its heat down my throat and into my chest. Mellow, somber, joyful. 

---

	We slept through the night beneath the same thermal blanket, using each other’s bodies to keep warm. Char had a nightmare in the dead of morning. I gave him a rub on the head and he slipped back to sleep. Emma, exhausted from her little flight of fancy, slept soundlessly. With the portable solar battery in Char’s harness depleted, Horizon shutdown into low power mode to preserve as much of its energy reserves as possible. 
	Come daybreak, we tore down camp. Faint rays of sunlight filtered through the stained glass, anointing our faces in phantasms of multicolor. I made sure to run some water over the bed of coals before packing up my teapot and stowing the blanket. Although I didn’t have any food for myself, I gave Char a handful of treats. The sheepdog’s jowls salivated as he scarfed them down in two quick gulps. 
        I tugged on my raincloak to keep the morning chill at bay and gently lifted Emma up onto my shoulders, careful not to jostle her injured leg needlessly. Unless I was mistaken, the lamb had narrowly avoided breaking a limb. But the joints were tender, swollen, and sprained so it was best for her not to be walking around for the foreseeable future. 
	When I manually activated Horizon’s power switch, the drone jerked up awake, levitating a meter or so above the stone floor of the chapel. “Good morning, Paris,” the drone said. 
	“G’morning,” I said, inclining my head. “Ready to head out?” 
	“Ready whenever you are.” 
	Together, the four of us made our way out the chapel’s front door. Char plodded along beside me. Emma rode on my shoulders. Horizon hovered overhead. 
	The loch was quiet and still. Aside from the dew-dripped grasses and omnipresent fog, there was no indication of the night’s past storm. I paused to admire the great mirror of the loch, the way the mountains reflected their majesty against its crystalline surface. So great was their height that their peaks were swallowed by the clouds. 
	To the west, I could see the valley. Far out in the distance, I could see the sheep beginning to rouse from slumber. Beyond that was our canton. Solar panels glittered like crystal on rooftops. Fecund farmland spread out across the mountain’s foothills. 
Between us, the loaming hillocks and grasslands swept along, like two hands cradling all the world. For not the first time, I paused to consider how truly fortunate I was to be here, amidst all this incomprehensible beauty. My spirit was full. Jubilee flowered in my breast. My stomach fluttered like fireflies as I beheld the sight of a valley made into the shape of my heart. 
	“C’mon now,” I said, begrudgingly tearing myself away from the view. “Let’s go home.”