Icy winds blew cold across her face as she struggled to walk west and to home. When Meg left the house, the sun was out, and she figured the prediction for snow and wind had been off as usual. The last four predicted storms had yielded no moisture. It seemed wind-only events were going to come their way, drying out every last drop of water in the parched brown winter earth.
Meg hadn’t meant to go quite so far, but the story she was listening to had her feet continuing at a clipped pace and she hadn’t noticed the miles she’d put behind her. The one saving grace was that the roar was out of the north, even though the tiny icy particles kept hitting her in the eye just above her left cheek. She figured, hoped, she had about a mile and half to go to the west path leading north to the barn. If she could hit the barn, she’d be fine. If she missed it, well, she better not miss it. She knew it would be a mistake to try to find the house; the barn was lined up with that west path though it would be a fight against the wind.