Harvest long over, the fields that had once been bountiful of colorful ears of corn stood bare with graying stalks. Frost, but not snow, had been the only introduction to the harsh winter to come so far. All that seemed to distinguish the land for miles was a vast expanse of black earth reaching towards the horizon, and steely gray of a thick layer of clouds stretching back as some kind of inverted reflection.
Three women and one folded wheelchair occupied a tiny powder blue sedan, that glided over a dirt road that parted the expanse of earth. The youngest of the women squinted at the horizon instinctively, and sure enough, a tiny white house appeared in the distance, so bleak against the landscape that even the single apple tree in the yard and a slanted tin mailbox were clear, at least to two of the women, even at this distance.