He decided to risk a fire. A few stunted bushes grew at the bottom of the ravine. Blundering into the night, for the first time in his life his hands plucked up wood without reading its grain and heft. He barely felt the thorns. Arms full, he was soon stumbling back up to where he’d left her sleeping fitfully with the baby.Desperately the carpenter worked the spark twig. The dogged rhythm calmed him, brought back for a few moments the solid routines of his workshop. But all that was so far away. At last, just as he was beginning to despair, a needle of smoke pricked the lichen. Careful husbanding of the frail flame, and the desert brushwood was soon roaring. The sudden glare was shocking. She seemed so young in the firelight, the little one so helpless. Bending low, he reached out.