A train horn blows, and suddenly I am in a vast wheat field. The straw is almost as tall as my chin and is a warm golden yellow that stretches all the way to the horizon, where a lightning storm meets it in all directions. The sky is blanketed with a dark gray overcast, which only strengthens the color of the wheat. Another train horn calls to me, and the wheat, almost in response, moves, possibly from a breeze. I feel my little brother's eyes watching me, but I don't know where from. I turn to find them and am greeted by a man's head and shoulders standing proud above the strawline, about 5 yards away from me. He wears a Marine's full dress uniform and is decorated with many medals for bravery sewn to the left breast of his dark blue regalia. He is Ojibwe; this is communicated to me not through his words, but through some sense. His eyes look resolute and stoic. Though I can't see it, I know he carries a sword. It is going to rain, he says. For a third time, the train horn is heard, and as I turn to try to locate its place of origin, it starts to pour rain, and wheat disperses in tow. When I turn back to face the soldier, a large double-headed drum starts to play, ushered in by the rain, and he begins to dance to its heartbeat.