Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality. -Edgar Allan Poe
Drake drives up to the main house. The tires of the truck kick up a dust storm in their wake. Several of the ranch hands approach the vehicle.
They gather around us with pinched faces and creased brows. They ask about Paul's condition before we've even had a chance to open the doors. Drake gives them an update and provides a phone number. The men's faces relax.
Standing in front of the house, on the stairs behind Drake, I wait for him to open the door. He turns the key in the lock and pushes the door open. Pivoting around, he sweeps me off my feet.
"Drake." I'm hoisted up into his arms. "What're you doing?"
"I'm practicing carrying you over the threshold."
I wrap my arms around his neck, laughing.
"What's the happy occasion," a voice growls from the far corner of the living room.