The coyotes announced, with their yapping and howling, that morning was soon to be upon the desert floor. It was their morning ritual to leave the undesirable heat of the new day behind and follow the disappearing shadow of the East Mountains. The exodus of the coyotes seemed to drag another scorching day into the world of the daytime creatures. Soon, the desert was silent but for the panting and the digging that came with the daily struggle for food, moisture, and cool air.

Muted by the sweeping expanse of the sage-covered desert floor, the cries of a frightened human became audible to those animals whose lives depended upon their ability to hear. They ceased their digging, perked their ears and cocked their heads. Their attention was turned to a small cabin dwarfed in the immensity of the desert's floor. Normally the animals would have been frightened by human cries and they would have scurried into their holes and dens. But their present attention, toward the cries coming from the man-made shelter, was more attentiveness than what most animals would afford any human. The occupant of the cabin was more than human to them–she was a human they loved.