above in the rack, and sat down, turned
to wave back at the two old people.

It was a summer morning. Brett leaned back and watched the country slide
by. It was nice country, Brett thought; mostly in corn, some cattle, and
away in the distance the hazy blue hills. Now he would see what was on
the other side of them: the cities, the mountains, and the ocean. Up
until now all he knew about anything outside of Casperton was what he'd
read or seen pictures of. As far as he was concerned, chopping wood and
milking cows back in Casperton, they might as well not have existed.
They were just words and pictures printed on paper. But he didn't want
to just read about them. He wanted to see for himself.

* * *

Pretty-Lee hadn't come to see him off. She was probably still mad about
yesterday. She had been sitting at the counter at the Club Rexall,
drinking a soda and reading a movie magazine with a big picture of an
impossibly pretty face on the cover--the kind you never see just walking
down the street. He had taken the next stool and ordered a coke.

"Why don't you read something good, instead of that pap?" he asked her.

"Something good? You mean something dry, I guess. And don't call it ...
that word. It doesn't sound polite."

"What does it say? That somebody named Doll Starr is fed up with glamor
and longs for a simple home in the country and lots of kids? Then why
doesn't she move to Casperton?"

"You wouldn't understand," said Pretty-Lee.

He took the magazine, leafed through it. "Look at this: all about
people who give parties that cost thousands of dollars, and fly all over
the world having affairs with each other and committing suicide and
getting divorced. It's like reading about Martians."

"I still like to read about the stars. There's nothing wrong with it."

"Reading all that junk just makes you dissatisfied. You want to do your
hair up crazy like the pictures in the magazines and wear weird-looking
clothes--"

Pretty-Lee bent her straw double. She stood up and took her shopping
bag. "I'm very glad to know you think my clothes are weird--"

"You're taking everything I say personally. Look." He showed her a
full-color advertisement on the back cover of the magazine. "Look at
this. Here's a man supposed to be cooking steaks on some kind of
back-yard grill. He looks like a movie star; he's dressed up like he was
going to get married; there's not a wrinkle anywhere. There's not a spot
o