~ Walking ~

During the 1930’s, topsoil had lain in ditches through my family’s home county. Part of the process of rebuilding America’s Breadbasket had been planting strips of trees through a country that was not meant for them. The topsoil of the plains was meant to be held down by grass, but grass wasn’t profitable, so instead we had wind-breaks called shelterbelts.
There’s a particular trick to walking through area thick with both trees and tall, tangled, prarie grass undergrowth, especially when you’re carring something heavy that can blow your face off — my feet seemed to remember the way of it even though my legs protested — I was thirty-two and had been a city-boy for twelve years. My progress would have involved more cursing except for the presence of Brock and Bhuto, neither of whom seemed to be having any trouble at all. I clamped my mouth tight and kept moving.
When we got to the edge of the trees farthest from the farm, Bhuto extended his hand to me for the second time, doing the same for Brock. I looked askance.
”Explanations come shortly, Sean, but we need to move quickly now, when we are not marked by others. I can assist with that,” Brock said.
I almost refused, until I saw that Brock looked just as unhappy about this development as I did. Misery loves company, or at least someone else to gloat over. I took the ogre’s hand.
I’m not sure what I was expecting… a puff of smoke, a swirling of my perceptions, maybe. When we just shot off the ground and into the sky without a word or gesture, I couldn’t help but shout.

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