Iowa. The corn is yellow. The sky black. It might be a Van Gogh painting. But debris is whirling in the air, the wind whistling, ominous. A tornado is coming and we drive faster, over the speed limit, with no idea if we’re going in the right direction as we flee. The wind could pick us up like a toy Hot Wheel and take us, like Dorothy, up and way. There’d be no yellow brick road at the end of the journey. We’d be dumped in a cornfield, in a river, on a hill. We’d be dumped from 50 or 100 or 150 feet in the air. We drive faster and faster, through small towns resigned to whatever comes. We watch for debris, hope the tornado changes path away from the road. The growing wind blows us sideways. We jerk in our lane, struggling to stay in place. When night comes, we drive on with no way to know where the tornado will go. We check the gas gauge, know we have to stop at the next station. We pull in, self-serve, see no one. We can barely wrestle open the car doors to get back in. On the passenger side, the wind rips the car door from my friend’s hand. It’s my turn to drive. We drive all night, grateful for the sunrise as we head for home in an easing wind.