Chapter 1
OKLAHOMA, 1985
Life was vast on the Great Plains of Oklahoma. Grasslands travelled for miles on end like golden oceans. It only took the smallest flutter of wind to cause a ripple and send it dancing along the switchgrass.
Spring was dawning and prompting competition among the bloom. Leaves were spreading and soaking up as much light as possible in a tug of war for photosynthesis. The bluebells, bellworts and coneflowers swayed from side to side and quarrelled with their neighbours. This was usual for March. The previous two months of that year had been cold and laborious, like time had wanted to hang on or something, perhaps a little reluctant to let go of winter, so now that spring was here it was a relief. When May came so would the rain, along with the dry air from Canada and the warm air from Mexico, driving Tornado Alley to its maximum.
Many weren’t lucky to witness such seasonal changes. Well, there were a lucky few, such as the residents of Rose Hill Farm. You found Rose Hill Farm on the OK-45, more or less twelve kilometres southeast of Helena. Despite its name, no cultivation could be found there at present. The previous proprietors had shifted north to Wakita in the summer of ’81 with their endless herds of cattle. It had been befitting, since the next two residents got married in November the year before, and moved in shortly after. They were still living there now. One of their fathers had been largely responsible for the purchasing of the house once cashing in his life insurance policy. Then the poor bastard had been defeated by pneumonia the next winter. Though rarely discussed between the residents, their pride was owed to him considering the unfeigned beauty of their home. The incidental passerby in their Honda Civic or Ferrari would flash a quick glance, but only for a second, before sending their gaze back to the meandering roads of Oklahoma.
The house itself was small in size but beautiful in aesthetics. Thanks to the reflective blossom-white brick, a pretty albedo effect was created, shunning away sunlight in an ashen glow. Grey shales formed the roof, complete with an exhaling chimney on the far right. If that log fire hadn’t succumbed to lung cancer already it was about to. The ground floor level was dominated by fixed aluminium windows, while the secrets of upstairs were shielded by awning apertures. On top of
