When at last they pulled into the driveway, Mary looked at the ranch as though it were a distant memory. The light and heat were intense now at the end of July. The grass had bleached yellow and in the heat of mid-day; even the birds and the insects were silent. Blue ran along the corral fence as they drove past. He tossed his head and snorted, and Mary knew this had been planned to make her homecoming feel less awkward. She suddenly felt a throb of sadness for her parents trying so desperately to please her.

John stopped the car. They all sat for a few seconds in silence, listening to the pinging of the cooling engine. Will and Mark were the first to leave, bolting finally like they had been freed from restraints. As soon as Mary stepped out of the car and felt the earth beneath her foot, she sensed a familiar shift inside. The horizon spread as far as she could see in any direction. Above her, thin clouds moved across the big sky like unraveling wool. She was reduced to a feeling she could only describe as normal. This was how she had perceived of herself her entire life against this austere landscape. She instantly saw herself as she always had in relation to the vastness of the sky: small, vulnerable, fragile, momentary, free of scrutiny, silent. She was here now and someday she would be gone. . . . There was a grim comfort in being reminded of what she had always believed was her true place in the scheme of things. She had no voice here. No one did. The far horizon. The wind. Their voices had no where to go. Best to keep quiet.