"Believe it's going to rain at last," said Uncle Henry.

"Hallelujah," said Aunty Em, her eyes fixed on the clouds. Then she turned and tapped Dorothy on the knee. "Out of the wagon while we go up the hill, Dorothy. Spare poor old Calliope."

Dorothy didn't understand.

"Calliope is our mule, Dorothy, and it's not fair to make her haul us up hills. So we'll have a nice walk."

The road had been baked into ruts. Aunty Em took her hand, and they walked in twilight into trees. "You should have been here in spring," said Aunty Em, "and seen the sweet William." Her face went faraway.

"I can remember going up this road for the first time myself," she said. "I was sixteen and your mama was nine, and we walked through here. It was just a track then. We walked all the way to Papa's plot of land. Through these beautiful trees. And then we saw the valley, like you will soon, all grass and river, and we camped there. And we slept under the stars by a fire, looking up at the stars. Did your mama ever talk to you about that, Dorothy?"

"No," said Dorothy. "No, Ma'am." Her mother had never spoken about Manhattan.

"Did she talk about your Grandfather Matthew? How he came here and built a house?"

Dorothy thought she better answer yes.

"Your grandfather came out here just like Etta's uncles, for the same reason. To keep Kansas a free state. And he worked on Manhattan's first newspaper, and then for the Independent with Mr. Josiah Pillsbury. We are educated people, Dorothy. We are not just farmers."

None of it made sense. Everything was so strange. It was like a dream. Dorothy knew that she would never wake up from it.

"There," said Aunty Em, at the top of the hill.

More shadows, more trees, fields.