“We’ll have rain soon” said the old man rocking on the storefront porch.

The farmer in torn clothing and covered in dirt leaving the store shook his head in dismay. There hadn’t been enough rain for crops in a year and a half. The Dust Bowl as the papers called it had been in full swing. Hardly worth planting and definitely not worth staying, but with no money and nowhere to go the farmer bided his time. Every day the heat and dust in his lungs was a constant reminder of his failures against nature. The only respite was the morning fog that had begun to gather about a week ago, but it was quickly dissipated the minute the sun rose.

He would dream of mornings where the fog never left and the sun stayed hidden. Only to be awoken by wind pouring dust through the cracks in his old farmhouse windows. Everything was dry and the monotony of slow starvation weighed heavy on his soul as he became more and more stoic.

90 days from the first fog, the fog didn’t go away in the morning. The sky opened up and the old man in the rocking chair outside the storefront pulled out his umbrella.