So Brave, Young, and Handsome by Leif Enger

thumb now,” said Glendon, and Hood held up his hand; there was a dishy place where the skin was glazed shellac.
    “It’s a fine job,” Glendon remarked.
    “Yes, he’s a good doctor, but a sorry driver—this was the third car he spoiled in two years,” Hood said, adding, “Doctors oughtn’t be allowed to drive!”
    It seemed fitting, having the boy along. I was glad for his company, his lifted soul. He laughed about the doctor, laughed about the wart; later, curled by the little pile of coals, he laughed in his sleep. Glendon sometimes did that too. In my whole life I have known just two people to laugh in their sleep. On that short trip from Revival to the Hundred and One, I was kept awake by both of them.

13
    What can be said for Kansas?
Plain
describes it nicely, both as grassy tableland and unadorned prospect. It’s wide and there you have it. To one born amid forest and bluff on the upper Mississippi, Kansas is so wide and its sky so flat it’s disturbing.
    “Aren’t there any hills at all?” I asked Hood Roberts as we built up the fire in the morning. We were camped by the road and in that rosy sunrise could see miles of plain at every point of compass.
    “Supposed to be some not far to the south, the Flint Hills, they’re called. You don’t seem happy,” he added, to me.
    “I would be happier if there were a few hills,” I said, though I couldn’t have explained why this was so. It wasn’t just being out in the open that troubled me—though it’s true a pursuer like Charles Siringo could see us from far away, it’s also true we would see him coming. No, my anxiety was of another order. I felt laden. Air itself has weight and mass, and Kansas had the most air of anywhere I’d ever been.
    “Even one hill,” I muttered.
    But Hood only looked at me as though I were past understanding, and as for Glendon, he was almost merry. We’d bought a few pounds of bacon in Revival and he had some snapping in a skillet. A tin pot sat on the coals, jetting steam.
    “Here now, be useful—pour us some coffee,” Glendon said.
    “Oughtn’t we get going, pretty soon?” I asked.
    “Settle down,” he replied.
    I handed him a smoky cup. “I just can’t seem to feel at ease.”
    “You will.” He stood and nodded at the great whitening sky. “We’re sure small, wouldn’t you say? Takes the onus off, somehow.”
    Later, after I’d crossed hundreds of similar miles—after I’d slept on my share of plains—I would begin to see what Glendon meant. The time would arrive when I too exulted in something as slight as fresh bacon under big skies. But that morning there was little exultation for me. The rosy sunrise that lifted Glendon only made me think of Susannah and my poor judgment in leaving her—not just once, now, but several times. My various exits, my reluctance to go home, seemed expressions of abandonment. Even the hissing bacon made me glum, for bacon was Redstart’s favorite breakfast. Deep in remorse I thought how poorly I’d repaid my family’s trust. I cast my eyes about but found no comfort, only the fixed flat horizon, the limitless sky.
    “Mr. Waits,” Hood said.
    He may have said it more than once—I wasn’t used to the name.
    “What is it?”
    “You ain’t had but one chunk of bacon. Are you ailing?”
    I gave him the rest and told him I missed my wife.
    “Your
wife
. Is she pretty?”
    “Pretty and smart—am I right, Glendon?”
    “Those things, plus she paints like a Frenchman,” he replied.
    Hood gave me a skewed smile. I said, “You’d like her, Hood. She’s got a feel for the road. You ought to see her drive.”
    Hood said, “Come on, Mr. Waits. You do the driving, I guess.”
    “We trade off. She drives faster than me though it isn’t really a contest. Once we drove all night up toward Lake Superior—we had three gasoline cans in back but still ran the tank dry and had to walk a few miles. The moon was so bright we could see wolf tracks by the road. She