Michael glanced at his motley campsite. “That’s what I’ve been calling it.”

“You get a camping permit while you were at the visitor’s center?”

“Didn’t know I was supposed to.”

“You should have. They would’ve told you where to camp. You’ve put this tent right in the middle of an arroyo. If there’d been a cloudburst last night, you and everything here would’ve ended up in the river.”

Michael glanced over the terrain, suddenly feeling a little stupid.

“That’s one of the reasons this isn’t a designated camp site.”

“Oh,” said Michael, “I didn’t know.” He fidgeted a bit and brushed his hand back over his hair. Dealing with the pain still stabbing his heart, he wasn’t prepared for a complication to crop up.

“I’m afraid that campfire is illegal,” Justin said matter-of-factly, pulling a citation book from his back pocket. “Sorry, it’s a hundred dollar fine.”

Michael’s eyes dropped to the small leather binder. His smile turned to a look of bewilderment. “You have to write me a ticket?” he muttered, drawn from the harmony of this dry paradise back to the nettlesome thorns of civilization. It drew his mind for the first time in four days to his pending lawsuit. Guess if I’m gonna get sued for a few million dollars, another hundred bucks doesn’t matter much.