“How is my little Sprout today?” the old man asked, rising from his chair by the window. He wore jeans, a bolo string tie made of turquoise, and a pale blue button-down western shirt.

“I’m fine,” Rory replied.

“Are you sure?” He spread his arms, beckoning to her.

She went to him and gladly accepted his embrace.

“I’ll be okay, Grandpa,” she assured him. While in his arms, her hands instinctively went to the long white pony tail that still hung halfway down his back. Her fingers caressed that mane of hair as they had done so often since she was a child.

The old man gave her an extra squeeze before releasing her. Rory looked up into those dark, aged eyes. She saw the special gleam, that sparkle that said he had his mind about him today. Such days became fewer and farther between with each passing year. The skin on his face was dark, weathered and creviced by time, and still bore all the traits of his ancient Yavapai Indian ancestry.

“You wouldn’t be lying to the old man, now would you?” he smiled.

“No Grandpa,” she lied.

“Please sit down, little Sprout.” He motioned for her to sit on the narrow bed. “I have something to tell you.”

His voice had always charmed her. It was a deep, resonating sound, with the words delivered slowly and deliberately. As always, she obeyed him without question.

She watched as the old man walked to the window and gazed out on the beautifully landscaped grounds of the Sunrise Home for the Elderly. So many hours she had spent with him, talking about her loves, her life, her troubles. And all he would do is sit in his chair and stare out that window, never saying a word. She wondered if the view looked different to him on days like today, when his mind wasn’t buggered with the disease.

“Do you remember the story I told you about my father, and the quest he endured to save the lives of his family?” he asked, still facing the window, hands clasped behind his back.

“I do, Grandpa. I remember it.”

“It has been four generations since a quest of this importance has gripped our family. But the time has come again…and you, little Sprout, must bear the weight upon your shoulders. You must embark on the very same quest as my father. You alone must journey to Red Rocks. It shall be the only relief, for yourself and those who love you.”

“What about Robert?” she asked. “He is of full blood and the next in line of descendents.”

“Bah!” the old man flicked his hand as if to shoo away a fly. “Robert is nothing but a coyote in sheep’s wool; a disgrace to the family.”

He turned from the window and kneeled before Rory. He took her hands in his. “You, my little Sprout, are a true Fisher, whether you believe it or not. I have taught you the importance of the sun, your faith, and your dreams. Have I not?”

“You have, Grandpa.”

The old man nodded, and smiled with pride. “Take that knowledge with you in your quest. Follow your dreams and the path that the Spirits lay before you. Trust in them, and trust in yourself. Look to them, and look into yourself. There you will find the answers…”