Excerpt:

Distant farmers on sun-baked tractors would pass by Gertrude’s car window as she gazed through, sun glinting off the shiny glass. Her father’s car would be going one way and the farmer’s tractor would be going the other, each one intent on getting somewhere. The farmer and tractor seemed to Gertrude, to be focused on getting one more row of earth turned and furrowed, guts toward the sun. Her father and his car, also, were focused on leaving their memories behind them, guts turned and furrowed, baking in the sun.