Grasping the back of a kitchen chair, she twisted and stretched out her back. Her spine released tiny pop-pop-pops reminding her she was out of popcorn. She stuck a hand in her pocket and drew out a little, gray creek stone. It slid between her fingertips with soothing coolness. She stared out the kitchen window.

The view was spectacular as ever. In mid-July the ragged peaks still sported snow, and the mountain meadows were laced with lupine. Aspen leaves shimmied beneath a clear, blue sky, and her restless spirit stirred. She spun back to the kitchen. Even the view couldn’t satisfy her today. Had the time come to move on?

A breeze rustled the torn piece of paper stuck to her fridge with a llama magnet. If she stared long enough, could she enter that picture? Could she skip up those steps and sit on a bench near a sycamore tree?

The timer dinged with aggressive cheer. Shaking herself, she slid out a tray of golden muffins and popped in the next one.

Butternut leapt onto the kitchen table and sat on the keyboard of her laptop. The cursor blinked accusingly from a blank screen.

She should have listened to Marcia at last week’s editorial meeting, but she didn’t. So often these days, she let her thoughts wander far from the Rockies, skipping down paths along spring-fed creeks. Jarred from her daydream, she proposed composting for the theme of this week’s column. Why hadn’t she offered “The Lovely Lupine” or “Your Vegetable Garden at Midsummer” or even “Rocky Mountain Pests?” Nope. Composting it was.

The voicemail alert on her phone demanded attention, too.

Composting could wait. Spotting Jenn’s number in the call log, she tapped the speaker button and boosted the volume.

“I found the perfect Maid-of-Honor dress! I just texted, like, seventeen pics. The color is stunning, and you’ll look so elegant, men will fall all over you, and no one will even notice me. So. Call me! It’s on sale at Sak’s, and I want to get it today, but I’m holding back until I get your okay. If you don’t call soon, though, I’m buying the darned thing, and you can take it or leave it. Preferably take it. Call me, okay? Bye.”

The message was time-stamped two hours ago. She navigated to Jenn’s texts. The dress was, indeed, perfect and doubtlessly already hanging in Jennifer’s apartment. She really should call her friend. They texted regularly, but they hadn’t spoken for weeks, and she missed her. Crazy, fun-loving Jenn, who was the only person she could talk to that day last summer when the planet stopped spinning.