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Keyanna

I never imagined that my death would come by way of a sheep avalanche, but as I watch the tumbling mass of floof barreling down the hill toward the stretch of road I am currently stalled on—it occurs to me that it would at least be amemorableway to go.

“Christ.”

I scramble to get the door of my ancient rental open—the door being on thewrongside, relatively, I might add, which means it’s in direct line of impact for the bleating army currently rushing toward me. I manage to snatch my backpack and duck out of the car and half stumble to a safer area, but the sheep, being less murderous than I’d come to believe, actually start to slow as they spill around the aged blue sedan, voicing their irritation of the impediment it makes by loudly trilling more of the hellishly loudbahs.

“Oi!” a voice calls from up the hill. “You all right, lass?”

I bring a hand over my eyes to peer up into the sun, noticing a man with graying hair waving down at me. “Fine,” I call back. “They’re not carnivorous, are they?”

“Not last I checked,” he chuckles, trotting down the hillside. He notices my car in the midst of the sheep-sea, quirking a brow. “Car troubles?”

“Itoldthe woman at the rental place I wasn’t good with a stick shift, but apparently, it was all they had left.”

“You an American?” He doesn’t ask it like it’s something to be offended by, but he does sound perplexed. “You’re a right ways from the tourist spots, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I’m here for…” I trail off, deciding it’s probably a bad idea to vomit my entire complicated pilgrimage to a veritable stranger. “I’m here to visit family.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners, a bright, expressive blue among the weathered lines of his face making him seem genuinely interested. “Is that right? And who might you belong to? I know everyone around these parts.”

I hesitate, again considering the ramifications of telling a stranger about my spur-of-the-moment reunion with my estranged family beforetheyknow about it. In the end, I reason that, if nothing else, there’s a good chance I will reach my grandmother’s house before this man can wade out of his pile of sheep.

“The MacKays,” I tell him. “Rhona MacKay?”

“Oh, aye, aye, I know Rhona! Is she your granny, then? Would that make Duncan your da?” He squints as if trying to make the connection. “You’ve got the look of him. Didn’t know he had any weans when he ran off to America.”

I try to process all of this; I am deciding to take his stream of consciousness as overt friendliness and not some backhanded comment on my father’s complicated history with his family. He must notice my stunned expression, though, because he waves a hand back and forth.

“Listen to me, babbling on. Sorry. Don’t get many newcomers in Greerloch.” He wipes his hand on the front of his worn flannel shirt, extending it after. “Hamish Campbell. I live over the hill there withthis lot.” He nods back toward the still-bleating horde. “Pleased to meet you.”

I take his hand, still reeling from the influx of conversation. People don’t justchatlike this back in New York. “I’m…Key. Key MacKay. Well, Keyanna, actually, but everyone calls me Key.”

“Key,” he echoes. “I like it. You remind me of Rhona now that I’ve had a proper look at you. You’ve got the eyes.”

I don’t exactly know how to feel about looking like a woman who hasn’t wanted anything to do with me for my entire twenty-seven years, but I manage a tight smile regardless. “How nice.”

He frowns at his brood, looking sympathetic. “I gather you’d like to be on your way, aye? Your granny is probably expecting you.”

I don’t correct him, giving a noncommittal shrug instead.

“Might take me a wee bit to get the herd to move along, but I can take a look at your car if you like? I’m right handy when I aim to be.”

“That would be amazing actually,” I sigh in relief. “If it’s really no trouble?”

“No trouble at all.” He waves me off. “You just wait right there, and I will have you right as rain within the hour.”

I glance across the rolling hills and lush green that spill all around us, biting my lip as I pull out my phone. “You don’t happen to know how far”—I squint at the notes on my screen—“Scall-an-jull Cove is, would you?”

Mr. Campbell laughs. “I grant ya, that’s a hard one. It’sSkallangalCove, love.” He says it like:scall-an-gale,which sounds much nicer than my butchered attempt. “You’re after Nessie, then, aye?”

“I…what?”

Another chuckle. “They don’t call it ‘cove of the fear’ for nothing. I’ve chased many a wean from that cove. Rocks are too rough there, you see? S’not safe.”

“Oh, it was just a place my dad mentioned…”