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can’t think of a soul who hasn’t had a run-in with one, or at least a close call. Can you, Big Darrell?”
    Big Darrell might have shaken his head no, but it was hard to tell. A little farther along, Erik was amazed to see a group of about twenty pheasants standing on the edge of the ditch by the side of the road. He couldn’t help reaching across his grandfather to point, crying out, “Look! Over there! Pheasants! A bunch of ’em!”
    â€œOh, heavens, there’s pheasants all over the place this year,” Oma declared. “Last year we had a mild winter, so they did real well. Jim Lund was just saying yesterday you can hardly swing a dead cat without hitting one.”
    Erik twisted around in his seat so he could watch the birds until they were out of sight. “What are they all doing in the road?” he wondered aloud.
    â€œThey’re out in the crops all day, eating,” Big Darrell said. “Heading back to cover for the night.”
    It seemed to Erik as if his grandfather had spoken in spite of himself, almost as if the words had forced themselves from between his lips. Still, these were more words than he had uttered all afternoon. Encouraged, Erik asked, “Can we hunt them?”
    Both Big Darrell and Oma stiffened in their seats, and a charged silence filled the truck cab. Finally, Oma said quietly, “Big Darrell’s too busy for hunting these days.”
    Erik suddenly felt desperate to escape the tense, strained atmosphere in the small enclosure of the truck’s cab. His brief feeling of happiness at seeing the deer and pheasants drained away. Oma broke the silence finally, saying in an overly cheery voice, “Well, here we are!”
    On the right, a gravel driveway led to a two-story wooden farm house. Erik searched his memory, but he had no feeling of recognition for the place. He could tell the house had once been painted white, and the two shutters that were left had once been red. The roof sagged, and the whole thing sort of slumped to the left, as if it had grown weary of fighting the wind. Everything looked old and poor and ready to give up.
    There was a big barn, too, and some smaller buildings, and a lot of large farm machinery, like tractors and combines and others he didn’t know the names of. As Big Darrell pulled up beside a pile of neatly stacked firewood, Erik pointed to a narrow little building with the shape of a crescent moon cut into the door. “Is that—um…is that what I think it is?” he asked.
    â€œWhy, that’s the out house, Erik,” Oma answered.
    His face must have shown his dismay, because Oma laughed and added, “There’s a bathroom inside. But the out house comes in handy during mud season when the men are out here working and their boots get all dirty.”
    Erik thought, If my feet get muddy, I’m taking off my shoes and going inside.
    Oma got out of the truck with a low groan. “Come on in,” she said, “but mind the porch steps. One’s broken. Stay to the right when you go up.”
    Big Darrell got Erik’s suitcases from the truck bed and walked toward the house. Erik’s legs were numb from the long ride, and he had to force himself to move. When he slid from the truck seat to the ground, a fierce blast of wind snatched at him, nearly knocking him over. Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he looked around in the gathering darkness.
    There wasn’t another house as far as he could see. There were fields, and a straight line of trees to one side of the house, which he figured had been planted in a vain effort to try to break the wind. The trees led to a low area where some scrubby-looking bushes grew. There might have been a pond down there, but it was too dark now to tell.
    The first stars were appearing, and as he looked up at them he felt dizzy, lost in all the endless space stretching out in every direction. He closed his eyes as he was buffeted by