The smell of rain and dust compelled Judith through even the most dreadful of days. She liked it most at the beginning, when she could stick her head out the window and watch as the peaceful expanse of dirt was interrupted by the first couple drops of water. They would make craters, like tiny little meteorites that had broken the atmosphere and landed right in front of her. Then, the others would follow. More and more little craters would appear until every bit of ground had been disturbed, then the mud would bubble up and then that scent would hit her nostrils. Earthy, real.

It could get her through any bad harvest, any tragically missed day of school, any evening of working out in the wheat. It could provide her with the strength to take it all, to push past it. When it rained, the world was real. She was real. She was more than just a series of embarrassing stories, more than the compiled DNA of mother and father with a bow slapped on top, more than the heir to a minuscule farm ridiculously placed in a desert, she was a full blown person, capable of smelling the rain, feeling the water. She was Judith, then, when it rained.

But this was Nevada, a wasteland, devoid of rain except for the most special occasions, and her life gave no indication of letting up.

“When do we harvest?” Asked Father.

“September for spring wheat,” she’d say, “May for winter wheat.”

“What’s God’s great gift?”

“Work.”

“Good girl.”

Father didn’t have any other children to bother. It was just Judith. Just Judith to take the farm, to carry the Bromlin name, to help with the crop. No sister, just Judith. No boys, just Judith. No farm hands, just Judith.

“Your shoulders are so broad, girl,” Mother complained, “there isn’t a dress in the world to fit ya’.”

Judith never replied to that. To work her like a boy and then wonder why she looked like one seemed idiotic. She tucked her nose back into her book, ignoring the stupidity around her. She’d gotten A’s in math and English, B’s in science. The teachers told her she could apply for scholarships, be someone someday. Her parents laughed at the idea. Go to college, learn something useless, learn how to write, how to analyses books, complete equations? Senseless. She would take the farm, she would be a Bromlin. She never contested until the day she graduated.

Stealing the truck had never been the plan. She’d thrown her cap with the rest them, but she didn’t bother to pick it up. It’d sat there on the ground, hopeless, meaningless. Judith thought she understood. Knew that it didn’t want to be picked up, it was just wanted to lay there. She and mother and father all climbed into the truck. Father talked about how the winter wheat would be up for harvest soon, mother lamented that Judith hadn’t worn make up. She sat scrunched between them, staring forward as the pavement turned to dirt and dust stirred up behind them.

Father announced that he’d change, and they’d go out to tend the quickly maturing wheat. Mother promised to start dinner. Then it was just Judith, alone in the cab, sitting solemnly in her gown. Just Judith, feeling the dirt on the seat, ignoring the coarse, unforgiving soil gathering in her fingernails. Just Judith, watching as a gust of wind whipped the dust into a frenzy, making tiny little twisters that came and went faster than she could breathe. Just Judith, no one else. Nothing more.

A drop of rain hit the windshield. The thin layer of dust covering the glass recoiled and gave way to the water. It streaked down until the bead of liquid was brown, leavened with dirt. Unconsciously she felt her fingers wrap around the window handle and start cranking. The smell bellowed through the crack in the window, filling her lunges with the incredibly real earth, created by the utterly unsuppressed, uncontrolled rain.

She scooted over in the seat as more drops gathered on the windshield, until all the dust had been washed away. She stuck her hand out the window, felt the cool raindrops hit her skin and streak down her arm, clearing dirt she hadn’t even down was there. Her other hand coiled around the keys, and the rumble of the truck’s engine starting sent electricity shooting up her back. She pressed her foot against the gas petal and the truck lurched forward, leaving whatever fake version of Judith had been living here for the past eighteen years in the tire tracks.

It was a downpour, the dirt had turned to mud. The puddles gave way to asphalt as she turned onto the highway, and she stuck her arm all the way out the window. Rain soaked her gown, ran down her shoulders and onto her back. She felt it wash away all that dirt she hadn’t known was there. She brought her hand to her face and let the water wipe her cheeks clean. It was just Judith now. No Mother, no Father, just Judith, made by the rain completely, absolutely, irreversibly real.