Outside, the rain was starting to beat against the tin roof of the trailer, a steady, metallic rattle.

We walked out into the damp afternoon air, the scent of wet pine and gravel filling my nose.

The sky was the color of wet slate, heavy with dark clouds that threatened a downpour.

I climbed into the passenger seat of Arthur’s black Buick, the leather cold beneath me.

The engine started with a low, smooth purr that felt entirely out of place in my sister’s gravel driveway.

As we backed out, I looked at the small, rusted trailers lining the road, their windows dark against the gray afternoon.

Just twenty-four hours ago, I lived in a house with twenty rooms, surrounded by manicured lawns and stone walkways.

Now, I was a refugee in my own county.

Arthur drove in silence, his eyes fixed on the winding blacktop road.

The windshield wipers scraped across the glass, clearing the mist in rhythmic strokes.

“How long do we have?” I asked, watching the skeletal trees fly past.