Bronte Wilson sat on the passenger side and thought of the cheerful line from the famous Oklahoma song as she stared out at the wasteland before her. Where the wind comes sweeping through the plains. The wind sounded so much more delightful in the fun, perky song than in reality. In real life, the wind sweeping through the plains was about as comforting as a tornado joyously hopping over one’s home.
I glanced back at the guy in the corner. He had a book in his hands, but he wasn’t paying much attention to it because his eyes were on me—I think. He smiled, and I looked away unsure if that smile was meant for me or for someone else.