Hell, she reflected, was like Iowa. Her feet crunched through snow, through which dry blades of straw stuck up. The plain, yellow and white, stretched on forever; the sky above was the high, clear blue without clouds that you sometimes get, where a pale sun stares down at you like the eye of a disappointed god, burning a tan into your neck. She had lost track of how long she had been walking, though she knew it was days, because the eye would dim and sleep, and then all the vast stars would come out in the impossible blackness...and with the stars would come the wind, which shivered through everything. There was no escape from it except to huddle in the wet, compacted snow like a dog, curled up around yourself. Then, at last, the morning would come, and more walking.
Like Iowa stretched out forever.
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