hile I wait in the conference room, staring at the long fall of the drapes, I am in the back seat of my parents car, driving across the long spread of Nebraska towards Omaha. It's midwinter and the fields are mostly empty of all but brittle grass and frost. Scattered groves of oak, hawthorn, slumped houses, all wilting in the dim sun. When a hawk soars and dips over our tiny vehice I can feel myself buoyed up by its wing beats, as if the car has disappeared and I am flying free over the plains, the wind lifting me up and up in the air.
We pass a herd of cattle grazing by the road, separated from me by glass and a leaning wooden fence. One of the cows raises it head and lows, but it is the sounds of the chair next to me being pulled away from the conference table.