NORA
There is no rise, no dip, and barely a curve in Interstate 80 as it pummels through a hundred miles of sage and saltbush between Lovelock and Reno. In the middle distance, salt flats shimmer as white as snow. Beyond them the land folds into hills, row upon row of mounds cloaked in sameness and wheat-colored grass, their backs as soft as sleeping cats in the sun.
If you lived in Lovelock, you’d know those hills by name. Your family would picnic at Rabbit Hole Springs. You’d ride your dirt bike down the Winnemucca Wash and hunt quail with your father in Seven Troughs. You’d remember summer nights drinking Colt 45s on Chocolate Butte, surrounded by stars. To you, those hills wouldn’t be guardrails along a road you couldn’t travel fast enough. They’d be Sundays after church, Saturday mo
