The Rio Grande. The watercourse that divided the United States from Mexico, here from there, right from wrong. That was what Jack had in mind. He'd heard rumors about all kinds of things you could get on the other side of that rampaging river, and he was of one mind and one mind alone to bridge its boiling banks, to mark for all time that final path that would seal his fate in the foamy tide.
Jack pulled up to the border crossing, weary and scowling. A man with a bad accent flagged him through without asking for his ID. No one was trying to keep Americans out of Mexico.
"Friend," Jack asked. The man looked up. "Could you tell me, where's the Rio Grande?"
The Latino laughed, a sound like snorting coming out. "This is it." He pointed down a crusted drainage ditch.
Somewhere at the bottom, a fowl little stream not inches deep crept along the crevasse.
Figured, Jack thought. Nothing he could find alone would be the mighty flame he sought.
But it did the job, dividing land and time regardless.