An ancient Ford Model T lies in the center of the field, slowly rusting away. Bare rungs that once held a roof jut nakedly into the cold morning air. Stiff oxidized springs squat forlornly where a driver had once sat; the soft padding long ago dispersed by countless mice and birds. The entire front end of the vehicle is missing, its parts no doubt scavenged to prolong the lives of other vehicles. It looks like the skeleton of some forgotten animal, forever lifeless and condemned to stand as a memorial to what once had been.

“Are you sure this is it?” Sam says.

Her grandfather pokes a finger through what looks like a bullet hole on one of the rocker panels. “How could I forget?”