The wind screams through the pickup. It tosses rusted bolts, fence wire, wrenches, and Sike’s feed bowl about the cargo bed with alarming ferocity. Nina rubs flints of plywood and sheep hair from her watering eyes. She grips Sike’s collar with one hand, the wheel with the other. The pair pop up and down in their seats as the chassis rocks over potholes. The wheels crush agates and quartz rock. The sky turns inky purple, and lightning flares about the clouds. Oddly, there is very little rain.