The warning came with the sky. One morning, the light turned flat and gray, and the land seemed to disappear before any snow fell. Animals grew restless. The wind shifted and became sharper. People who knew prairie winters understood the signs. Doors were checked. Extra wood was carried inside. Livestock was moved closer to shelter. Nobody wanted to be outdoors if the weather broke suddenly.
The woman walked around her cabin again. She pulled at every rope and pushed against each bundle. A few had loosened, so she tied them again. Her daughter followed in her coat. “Is it going to be bad?” she asked. “I don’t know,” the woman said. She looked at the darkening sky. “That’s why we get ready before we know.” Across the way, a neighbor called, “Still trusting your flowers?” She answered, “I’m trusting the work.”
Snow began before midday. Within an hour, it was blowing sideways. By afternoon, the road had vanished. The wind pressed against the settlement until doors rattled in their frames. People hurried indoors and stayed there. The woman shut her door, barred it, and added wood to the stove. Then she heard the first deep gust hit the north wall.