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instruction she would give, at the times when I am lonely. She knows more than I do at this point. I hope a kind God allows her to peer through portals to earth when I need an unseen uplifting hand. I think He does. He must care for the lonely. They must have special dispensation with Him.
    And now, even in the company of my great-nephew Levi, with a new part of life just ahead of me, I am, indeed, lonely, and if a man my age can be frightened, I am that, too. But I must not show it. If you feel it and then show it, you will act it, and it will come to be. I can do little about my feelings. But I must stop them before showing them. The plains have imbued me with stoicism and independence and a way to deal with unwanted change and a heart that trembles.
    We drive away from my house, away from my street. Levi reaches the main street of our town and asks which way we turn.
    “To the left. That’s west, the way we need to go,” I tell him. I feel a little of what the pioneers must have experienced, leaving a home, looking west, moving toward a setting sun, and for some, with dark clouds hugging the horizon. Levi guns the engine again as we turn onto the highway, and we lurch forward. This is my life passing before me, at forty-five miles an hour in a twenty-five-mile zone.
    I should have guessed we would drive by my old pharmacy, made of stone, graceful in its age. Driving by must have been a part of a grander scheme of things. It gives me a chance to say good-bye again. A gift boutique, its windows filled with dry flowers and homemade wood boxes and frames, occupies it now. Soon we are beyond the edge of the city, and the great fields of grain stretch to the horizon. Above, the black clouds loom, and Zeus hurls his crooked bolts of lightning to the ground, and the rumbling of thunder gurgles our way from the center of the storm. Levi seems not to notice.
    The plains are beautiful at times such as these. Subtle as a wheat stalk, bold as forked lightning splintering a tree.
    I wonder what kind of sign this is, the lightning and the thunder, if any kind of sign at all. Daisy used to say that I saw too many signs in too many things.
    I stare straight ahead. I can’t look at this road, the fields, the houses that sit like wooden ships on a golden ocean, anymore. I can’t look at the names on the mailboxes. I know these people. I love these people. Levi reaches for the radio, flips it on, and pushes the scan button.
    “Do you have any decent radio stations out here?” he asks. “I’m not really into country, if you know what I mean. But almost anything else. Except jazz. And classical. But everything else is okay. Not oldies, though. I should have brought some of my own music. Forgot to. I can’t believe I forgot.”
    He makes a face toward the radio, his frustration obvious. Ahead, lightning splits the evening air, and in the distance I see the majestic sweep of a rain line.
    I think this will be a strong storm. The makings are all in place. Shall I take it as a salute from nature at my departure? Lightning forks a crooked hand across the sky, and the thunder rattles through the din of the fast red car bolting down the two lanes of asphalt.
    As we whip past the signs and markers, the fences and tall stalks of grain, we hurtle our way toward the westward horizon.
    Levi shoots me a quick glance, smiles impishly, and says, “Don’t worry, Uncle Loyal. I’ll have us in Utah before you know it.”

Chapter Six
    He Says We Might Be Near a Tornado and Then Hands Me a Ham Sandwich
    The clouds ahead, they’re dark. Really dark. I can see lightning shooting out of them every so often. I wonder, Should we be heading right into this storm? What do you do in these North Dakota boomers? Pull over? Drive ahead? Find a bed and crawl under the blankets? Whimper? I don’t know. Should I ask Uncle Loyal?
    I’ve seen some good thunderstorms in my day, but this one has them all beat. I switch on my headlights. I look at the speedometer,