They had travelled some four miles over a narrow gravel highway before turning onto a rutted country road. Ben drove at what Sarah considered a faster than comfortable speed over the gravel, nor did he slow down for the rough dirt road. With one hand she clutched the tattered leather seat, with the other she held tightly to the door handle as the pickup truck bumped and ground its way for mile after endless mile. He hadn't said a word after she climbed into the cab at the railway station, nor had she tried to start a conversation. But the silence between them began to jar her nerves as much as the road jarred her bones. "How far do you live from town?" she asked suddenly, shouting to be heard over the roar of the motor. "From Nimkus? 'Bout twelve miles." "Oh," she said, surprised, "that's not very far." "'Tis when it rains." She was about to ask him what he meant but at that moment one of the truck wheels fell into a pothole, answering her unspoken question. "Long way in winter, too," he said, his tongue now loosened, "'specially when we get as much snow as we did this last one." "Oh? Was there a lot then?" "Piled up over the phone wires." She glanced sideways at him. In profile his sharp features were not unattractive but it surprised her to see that, beneath the hat, his dark hair hung in untidy wisps. He had not even bothered to get a haircut. But at least he had recently shaved. And his overalls, although in need of a patch here and there, were clean. But the pungent odour of barnyard, either from Ben's boots or the old truck itself, rendered the interior of the cab almost intolerable. He had fallen silent again, and Sarah felt too weary to bother with small talk. She had done her part–the rest was up to him. She could not understand him, and surely had not expected this indifference. Had she done something wrong? She wondered if his reticence was caused by nervousness. If so, he certainly did not show it. His long, slim hands rested easily on the steering wheel and his lanky body slouched in the seat. Sarah sighed and turned her head to watch the passing landscape. Mile after mile of wheat fields rolled by the window, their uniformity broken only by an occasional stand of poplar trees. Reddish bristly spikes of foxtail lined the roadside, and clumps of Russian thistle struggled in the wind to be free of the barbed wire of the picket fences. Poking their heads above the couch grass on the borders of the fields, and dotting the billowing carpets of ripening grain, were numerous yellow flowers of the mustard plant. She marvelled at the flatness of the prairie. The horizon seemed to stretch to infinity, the sky so big and blue that Sarah felt she could float up and into it. A lone gopher emerged from the underbrush and skittered across the road. A hawk wheeled and dived overhead. Sarah wondered idly if the rodent's flight was an effort to escape from the mechanical menace bearing down on it, or the winged menace from above. She turned her head to mention her observation to Ben but the set of his lips did not encourage conversation. She focused again on the scenery.