We left for the hunt on Friday morning.
The clock read 3:48 a.m. as I said goodbye to my dogs and followed my husband out of the house.
(I hadn’t slept much. I wasn’t at all ready for the wicked 2:30 a.m. wake-up call from my husband’s ancient and much-hated-by-me alarm clock. Bright-eyed-and busy-tailed, I was not.)
We hopped into our trusty, 1983 Jimmy, permanently marked with plenty of Desert pinstriping, and headed out.