A dusk red smudge in the western sky fades to a purplish bruise.
She is flying over Windale -- yet this is a Windale strange to her...smaller, divided by dirt roads with wagon-wheel ruts, as if she has flown into the town's past, more than a century gone. She banks to the left, swooping down across a tall field of corn, her night-adapted eyes attracted to movement.
A man in threadbare coveralls walks an unsteady line, pausing every few moments to take a swig from a jug. The whiskey dribbles down his chin. He wipes it away with the back of a sunburnt arm....