In the sky above, a huge bird soars. I screen the sun with a hand. Its wingspan is enormous. A condor? A vulture? Definitely some kind of hawk anyway, and – from the flashes of a white tail and head – I’d say an eagle. Two ravens are swooping it repeatedly. The eagle cuts and swerves, at one point narrowly avoiding death by power line, but eventually surrenders and speeds off at full tilt to the high rocks behind the school, its tormentors in hot pursuit. I’m about to get back in the truck when, from out of the blue, really quite literally, a feather spirals slowly down from the heavens and comes to rest briefly on the hood of the truck before fluttering to my feet. I pick it up.

It’s golden brown and about eighteen inches long. I smooth the velvety tendrils against my cheek. It smells musty, of bird, and it brings back a rush of nostalgia for Scotland, the dank mud of the bog and the nesting peewits in the marsh. Feeling tentatively pleased at what must be a good omen I climb back into the truck and lay the golden feather carefully on top of the dashboard.

Back in Temerosa, a long grey pickup has been parked across the path to the cabin. I stare at it, weighing up whether I can steer round without running into the twin culverts of the drainage ditch, but the space is just too narrow. At first I’m annoyed then it occurs to me the truck’s been left there on purpose and I begin to suspect rather belatedly that I’m being robbed. Killing the engine, I climb out and sneak round the hill towards the cabin, keeping low, out of sight of the windows, eventually dropping down behind a boulder near the back porch where I crouch and catch my breath like an out-of-condition cat burglar.

‘Morning.’

I peer over the stone ledge. Halfway up a ladder and fiddling with the pipe by the bathroom window is a man in a black cowboy hat. I stand up, hastily brushing down my jeans to cover my embarrassment. ‘What are you doing?’

He continues fiddling.

‘Excuse me.’ I stomp indignantly to the foot of his ladder.

He glances down.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Your ventilator pipe is blocked.’

‘My what?’

He holds up a piece of grey plastic piping. ‘Ventilator pipe . . . maybe you noticed the smell?’

‘The smell? The sulphur, you mean?’

‘No, ma’am, I mean the shit.’ He resumes fiddling, leaving me staring once again at his back.

‘Look, who are you? Do you mind coming down, please.’

A pair of scuffed cowboy boots descends, then a pair of the filthiest trousers I have ever seen.

‘This’ll need replacing.’ He puts the pipe in my hand. ‘I’ll bring you one later in the week, meantime don’t use the toilet.’