Clare looks at the cardboard box crowded with dusty rocks. She picks a smooth one with green and black snaking veins and holds it to the light, then writes malachite on the piece of paper beside her. She reaches for a small, craggy rock with gold stripes. Roger walks up. She rolls the rock in the palm of her hand. She smells him before she sees him. He arrived late. The lab instructor shot him the now familiar accusing look as he took a desk noisily in the back row.
Excerpted from Riding Fences by Rachel Dangermond
Copyright ©1998 by Rachel Dangermond