The posts went on for miles, marching over the drapes of the hills and losing themselves in the creases. Beneath most, not all, a smattering of wildflowers: ramsons and columbine and agrimony and cardinal-caped poppies. None of them could see a reason for what grew, or where.
The four of them – and Mrs McCullen’s dog, which had taken it into its head to follow them – had been walking the line of the posts for days. It was safer than following the river.
Not one of them knew where the posts were going, but it had to be better than home.