“Ant,” she whispered, realizing it was a prayer. The first one she’d even begun in years.

The windmill shook. She looked down and saw her mother ascending, rattling the boards as she climbed up.

Mom sat down beside her, let her legs dangle over the edge.

“I’m not a baby, Mom. You can tell me the truth.”

Mom took a deep breath and exhaled it. “We were talking about your dad’s tent because . . . we’re leaving Texas as soon as Ant is better. Going to California.”

Loreda turned. “What?”

“I talked it over with Grandma and Grandpa. We have a bit of money and the truck runs. So, we will drive west. Tony is still strong. He’ll find work, maybe on the railroad. I could do laundry for people, I hope. I hear Pamela Shreyer got work in a jewelry store. Imagine that. Her husband, Gary, is tending grapes.”

“And Ant is coming with us?”

“Of course he is. As soon as he’s better, we’ll go.”

“It’s a thousand miles to California. Gas is nineteen cents a gallon. Do we have enough for that?”

“How do you know all of that?”

“After Dad left, when I was supposed to be studying Texas history, I studied maps of California. I thought about—”

“Running away to find him?”

“Yeah. Turns out I’m stupid, but not that stupid. California is a big state. And I don’t even know for sure that he went west. Or that he stayed west.”

“No. We don’t know any of that.”

Loreda leaned against her mother, who put an arm around her.

Leaving. Loreda thought about it for the first time, really thought about it. Leaving home.

“I wanted you to grow up on this land,” Mom said. “I wanted to grow old here and be buried here and watch over your children’s children. I wanted to see the wheat grow again.”

“I know,” Loreda said, with a sting of realization: there was a part of her that wanted that, too.

“We don’t have a choice,” Mom said. “Not anymore.”

A WEEK LATER, MOST of the chicken coop was still buried in dirt, as was one whole side of the barn. The cows had been sold and taken away and the farm had been transformed by the eleven-day dust storm into a sea of brown waves. It was too much work to dig out from all that dirt, especially now that they were leaving. The big, wooden-slat-sided truck bed had been loaded with a few of the things they thought they’d need in their new life—the small wood-burning stove, barrels of goods and food, boxes of bedding, pots and pans, a gallon of kerosene, lanterns.

Elsa walked like a Bedouin up and down the dunes, past the windmill. At last she found some yucca, growing wild, its fibrous roots exposed by the wind and erosion.

She hacked up the roots, ripped them out of the ground, and dropped them into a metal bucket.

Back at the house, she saw Loreda seated at the kitchen table with Tony, maps laid out around them.

“What’s that?” Rose said, coming out of the kitchen. She’d canned two chickens for the trip. That, along with the last of the canned vegetables, a sugar-cured ham, and some preserved Russian thistles, should get them to California.

“Yucca. We can boil it and eat it.”

Loreda made a face. “A new low, Mom.”

Outside, a car came into view. They looked at each other.

When was the last time they’d had visitors?

Elsa wiped her hands on a cement-sack dish towel and followed Tony out of the house.

The automobile rolled up the road, dodging this way and that to avoid cracks in the earth and sand dunes and coils of barbed wire. Yellow-brown dust billowed up from the thin rubber tires.

Tony crossed the porch and headed toward the automobile coming their way.

Elsa tented a hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun.

“Who is it?” Rose asked, coming up beside her, wiping her damp hands on her apron.

The automobile rumbled up into the yard and stopped in front of Tony. The cloud of dust dissipated slowly, revealing a 1933 Ford Model Y.

The door opened slowly. A man stepped out of the car, straightened. He wore a black suit, the buttoned-up coat strained over a well-fed gut, and a brand-new fedora. A thicket of gray sideburns bracketed his florid face.

Mr. Gerald, the only banker left in town.

Rose and Elsa walked down into the brown yard and stood with Tony.

“Morton,” Tony said, frowning. “Are you here about the meeting tomorrow? I hear that government man is coming back to town.”

“Yes, he is. But that’s not why I’m here.” Morton Gerald shut the car door gently, as if the automobile were a lover in need of care, and doffed his hat. “Ladies.” He paused, looked uncomfortably at Tony. “Perhaps the ladies would like to give us some time to speak privately,” he said.

Rose said firmly, “We’ll stay.”

“How can I help you, Morton?” Tony asked.

“Your note for the back hundred and sixty acres came due,” Mr. Gerald said. To his credit, he looked unhappy with the news. “I’d roll it over if I could, but . . . well, as tough as times are for you farmers, there are men in the big cities speculating on land. You owe us nearly four hundred dollars.”

“Take the thresher,” Tony said. “Hell, take the tractor.”