50. Ava
FIFTY
AVA
The drive to Ransom feels longer than it is. Harper sits between us on the bench seat, Knox at the wheel this time. The horses are loaded in the trailer, and Lucy holds her head to the wind in the bed of the truck, like nothing has happened. And best of all, there aren’t many clouds in the sky. That means no smoke or tornados, at least for now, and a much-needed reprieve.
Flat land stretches as far as the eye can see, the landscape in areas riddled with debris. The fields that are still intact alter between corn and wheat. Some are unkempt, some still tended to by the looks of it, but many are decimated. Phone poles are uprooted, fences are torn up, gone, or mangled, and scars mar the earth, just as they did in Texas, only these are wind-made and carved by tornadoes.
The anticipation of whatever awaits us has hiked my anxiety up a few notches, but Harper’s constant chatter helps distract me. We started our drive with a game of I Spy and a hopeful, anticipatory charge in the air, which has since downgraded to silence in the cab of the truck and a thick apprehension about what happens next.
Malia was right. There’s something freeing in telling Knox when I feel strange, like earlier when we got back on the road. Giving it voice makes it feel like the burden isn’t all mine, and I’ve been able to breathe a little easier. His frequent glances of reassurance help too.
Knox leans forward, downshifting as a telephone pole blocking the road comes into focus.
“That’s...big,” Harper says, and Knox slowly drives around it, onto the dusty shoulder.
“Let’s hope they are all that easy,” he mutters, and we continue in more silence. If people were still living here, wouldn’t they have cleared the road? Then again, as we pass an overturned car on the shoulder a quarter mile down, I decide they have more urgent things to worry about.
“Kevin said it’s still viable to live here,” I remind us out loud, in case Knox is worried about his uncle’s place. The debris scattered along the road is a near-constant reminder that we don’t exactly know the state of things.
“It’s Tornado Alley,” Knox says with a shrug. He veers around snapped branches on the shoulder. “It might be worse than it once was, but people here are used to this, at least to a certain degree. Most people have storm cellars here.”
We drive by what’s left of a farmhouse and then an old warehouse and toppled water tower that looks like it was picked up and tossed across a pasture. We pass another house set back at the edge of a wheat field that’s unscathed, but the building on the lot next to it is nothing but crumbled bricks and debris.
“A horse!” Harper points to a man riding a horse down a dirt road off in the distance, and then we pass a pasture of sheep.
“What do we have here?” Knox mutters. The windshield of an approaching car glints in the sunlight, and Knox slows the truck as it gets closer. It’s a golf cart on steroids, not a car, and it pulls to a stop, idling loudly beside us. An older man with tanned, wrinkly skin, a scraggly gray beard, and hair poking out from under a John Deere ball cap peers inside the cab of the truck.
Knox rolls his window down and dips his chin in greeting.
The old man cants his head, glancing between the three of us in the cab. “Mornin’. You folks just passing through?”
“Sort of,” Knox says, scanning the horizon. “I’m here to check on some family.”
“Whereabouts?” He combs his gnarled fingers through his beard.
“Just outside of Ransom.”
The man’s face falls a little, but he shrugs. “I wish I had better news, but as you can see, we’ve had our share of storms lately. We’ve had two tornadoes in as many days. Ness County hasn’t had it easy, that’s for sure. But some folks have been lucky.”
Knox swallows audibly, and I exchange a wary look with Harper, offering her a forced smile of reassurance.
“Who you here to see?” the man continues.
“The Bennetts. Mason and Beth.”
The man shakes his head. “‘Fraid I don’t know ‘em, but it’s a straight shot from here to Ransom.”
“Thank you. Any idea what the fuel situation is around here?”
“There’s a station a mile down that is still in service, but outside of that, I’m not sure. Most folks in this area are stocked up or have had to leave. You can have a storm cellar, but rebuilding isn’t as easy as it used to be. Folks are friendly, though, as long as you are.”
“Understood.”
The old man nods. “I’ve got a burst water pipe and a birthing cow to tend to.” He grabs the bill of his ball cap politely. “Good luck.”
“Thank you!” I call as he drives away. I watch the man disappear behind the horse trailer, and the sound of his engine grows more distant as he speeds down the road. Only when my neck hurts do I turn forward and realize Knox is staring out the windshield, his hands tightening on the wheel. Harper looks at me and then at Knox again.
“They’re okay,” I tell him, hoping with every fiber in me that it’s true.
He inhales a deep breath and puts the truck into gear. “There’s only one way to find out.”
We drive for another thirty miles before we see the sign for Ransom, and Knox’s eyes linger on it until we’re completely past it. “They live a mile outside of town,” he explains. I’m not sure if it’s worse to drive in anxious silence or to fill the quiet with nervous chit-chat.
“Whatever happens,” I say softly, and reaching over Harper, I rest my hand on his thigh to physically remind him he isn’t alone. “We’re together. We can get through it—whatever it is.”
The column of his neck moves with a thick swallow, and his eyes dart to me. They are sad already, like he’s bracing himself for the worst. “I know.” Reaching forward, Knox pushes the cassette into the tape deck. “Eye of the Tiger” starts playing, and despite how tired I am of this song, I’m glad there’s something other than dread to fill the silence. After the first riff, Harper taps her thighs with the beat of the music like she knows it.
Knox and I stare at her, but Harper is oblivious as she strains her neck to see out the windshield.
As soon as the slightly garbled male voice starts to sing, Harper hums.
“You know this song?” I ask, dumbfounded.
Harper makes a duck face as she shrugs. “It was Larry’s favorite.”
“Larry, huh?” I glance out the window. “And who is that?”
“He lived next door to my grandma. He would let me hang out with him in his garage when he was working on cars. Larry sang into his beer bottle and pretended he was playing the drums. He said they’re underrated.”
Knox and I smile at each other. “Who?” he asks. “The band or the drums?”
Harper shrugs again. “I have no idea.”
“Well, if you know the words, then you can teach us.” Knox smiles at me since we already know the song by heart, having listened to it on repeat from Guymon to Kansas.
“Sure, I can teach you, but it’s not about the words,” she explains. “It’s about the passion.” Harper starts beating on her thighs again, her face contorted like she actually knows what she’s doing, and I burst out laughing because kid energy is good energy, especially now.
“Yeah?” Knox chuckles. “And what do you know about passion, Harper?”
Her eyes get wide. “I know that the more scrunched up your face is, the more passionate you are. And the more you can feel the music.”
Her nose scrunches and she pretends she’s strumming a guitar, even if I think it’s actually an electric keyboard in the background. I look at Knox. “We have much to learn.”
“Yeah, we do.” Our eyes meet, and gratitude fills his hazel depths. I recognize it because I feel it, too, this new energy with the three of us together.
As the song plays on, Harper gets tired of being passionate and settles in, tapping her fingers sporadically to the beat instead.
My amusement fades as Knox’s expression sobers and the truck slows. Knox downshifts and comes to a complete stop at a dirt road turnoff. A small wood sign is etched with Bennett and a road number.
I peer farther down the road, past the open gate to a white, two-story house with a wraparound porch. I can barely see it through the sparse elms.
“It’s still standing,” Knox rasps. So is the barn and a few sheds. There’s even a draft horse and goats in the field. Harper looks between us, but I watch Knox, waiting for him to take the lead.
Harper wiggles in her seat, growing restless.
“The moment of truth,” Knox murmurs, but he doesn’t move.