FREDDIE PULLED OVER by the side of the road, and they both got out of the car. It was a fine hot day, with a peerless blue sky hanging like painted paper over fields full of wild yellow sunflowers. Ashley leaned against the bonnet and took a sip from the huge cup of iced Coke she’d bought at the last gas station. She liked Kansas, she realised, because it was flat. The sky kissed the horizon wherever she looked, and there were no glowering fells to break it up. Freddie joined her, putting the bag of burgers between them.
‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘this is a great picnic spot. Lunch here, and then on to Wichita? I’ve got a promising lead, several interviews we could chase up.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’ Ashley took a bite of her burger, dripping a healthy blob of tomato ketchup down her shirt. The shirt itself was bright blue and printed with a big picture of Foghorn Leghorn, the slogan ‘Genuine American Crypid’ in cheerful pink and green letters underneath. Before flying out to the States, she had merrily thrown all of her white and cream cardigans and shirts into a bin bag and dropped them off at a nearby Oxfam.
When they’d eaten their burgers and fries, they got back into the car. Ashley paused with the door open, reluctant, just for a moment, to put anything between her and that view. No hills, no thunderous English clouds, and no Heedful Ones – she hadn’t seen a single one since she’d climbed down Red Rigg Fell, and she was surprised to realise she almost missed them. Not enough to go back to England, however.
Ashley grinned and slammed the door.