Idaho is a martian place, filled with shiny tin buildings, struggling brush, and farms that are growing either potatoes or dirt. It's hard to tell. The sky is filled with dust. It's orange. I think there may be mountains in the distance, but they fade into that rust-colored haze.
Last year, the harvest consisted of twelve pounds of potatoes and nineteen tons of rock. Confused buffalo raped all their cattle to death and the cat died of leukemia. Lightning caught the barn on fire and storms flooded the septic tank, spilling sewage into the toilets, bathtub, and somehow, the refrigerator. The county social club wouldn't let them in after that, because they smelled like street people. Their only son ran the tractor into an exposed electric cable, killing himself and destroying the tractor. So when the state ran them off their land in order to extend the Interstate, the Dogleys didn't have much reason to protest.
They accepted a $250,000 check and packed up their belongings, unsure of where to go, but not really caring.
Anywhere but here, thought Ma.
I just hope this truck will make it out of Idaho, thought Pa.
Of course, Pa had no way of knowing the truck was just as pleased to be leaving, and it hummed happily all the way to Colorado. The Dogleys bought a brewery and lived happily ever after.
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