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?”
    Oma blinked. “Why, I expect it looks different here than it does in New York,” she said. “But there are people. You’ll see.”
    A while later Erik asked, “How much longer until we get there?”
    â€œAnother hour or so,” said Oma.
    He tried not to groan. The day seemed endless. He’d never sat still for so long in his entire life. After what seemed much more than an hour, Big Darrell turned off the highway by a sign whose paint had peeled so badly Erik had to squint hard to make out what it said. FORTUNA, N.D.—YOU’LL IT . Painted around the words were four pictures: a motor home, a cow, a tractor, and a pheasant.
    The sight of the pheasant cheered Erik for a couple of seconds, until he remembered that tomorrow he was supposed to be home, hunting actual pheasants with Patrick.
    As Big Darrell drove slowly down a street that was lined with boarded-up dingy storefronts, Erik looked around with a sinking heart. Everything was dusty, and rusty, and old. He thought that a buzzard would be a far more appropriate symbol for the place than a pheasant. He knew right then and there that he wasn’t going toFortuna, not one bit.
    There were clues, such as the presence of cars and tractors, a string of limp telephone wires lining the street, and a satellite dish on a rooftop, that told him he hadn’t actually gone back in time to the old Wild West.
    But he sure as heck knew a ghost town when he saw one.

4
    Big Darrell pulled into a dumpy-looking gas station Erik would have guessed was out of business, and got out to work the pump.
    â€œFortuna’s only got a few streets,” Oma explained while she and Erik waited. “So it’s real simple to find your way around.”
    Erik almost said what he was thinking: As if anybody could possibly get lost in such a dinky place.
    â€œAll the businesses are closed now,” Oma went on, “except for this gas station and the tavern.” She pointed to a dilapidated building with a neon beer advertisement in the window. “We have to go clear to Crosby for groceries. There’s only eleven houses here that still have folks living in ’em.”
    They had passed a few houses, all of which had a sad, run-down look. Erik wasn’t convinced that people actually lived in any of them. There was a lot of old stuff scattered about the yards, too: rusty car bodies and farm machinery, a bike, a washing machine, a deflated plastic swimming pool. It was hard to figure why people would keep junk like that around. It wasn’t as if there was nowhere else to put it. There was nothing but empty space out here. He felt his spirits dip even lower.
    â€œMom said you sold the farm. Where’s your house?” he asked, hoping it wasn’t one of the ones he’d already seen.
    â€œOh, we don’t live here in town,” said Oma. “We still live out at the farm, where your momma grew up. We just sold the land. Jim Lund bought it. Big Darrell still works with Jim every day. You can’t imagine Big Darrell not farming, can you?”
    Erik didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “Where is the farm?”
    â€œI guess you don’t remember much from your visit, it was such a long time ago,” Oma answered. “It’s out a ways.”
    â€œOut a ways” turned out to be miles down a part-dirt and part-gravel road off the main highway. It was beginning to get dark. As they jounced along over the ruts, three deer appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, running across a field to the right of the truck. Erik knew immediately that they were mule deer, not white-tails like they had in New York. These were the first mulies he’d ever seen! He couldn’t wait to tell Patrick about them.
    Oma noticed him looking at them and patted his knee. “We have to be real careful driving at night around here. The deer start moving at dusk. I