She ran across the pasture, her left hand at the small of her back holding up her too loose, busted blue jeans. The hair that had fallen out of her braid stuck to her collarbone. She had felt the wind pick up through the screen door and knew it was coming; the door slammed. The rain crested the hill. She ran barefoot; dodging the gopher holes she had tripped over before, praying she didn’t find a new one. The storm came; clouds anvilled out, there was green. Big drops. This was her storm. She held on; she let go.