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Show in my father's house/ 164 I dreamed nightly about wolves. They came at me through the sagebrush and stood off, watching as I scrambled up the high wooden step of our tin shack. Their teeth dripped, their mouths foamed, and their eyes mocked me. They never snarled or howled but moved steadily upon me in the terrible silence of my dreams. The night before Aunt Sarah was to arrive, I stayed awake and made several unnecessary trips to the outhouse -- braving black widows and wolves - for an excuse to check the dirt road. Near dawn, we heard the rumble of tires and ran outside into the glare of car-lights. My father leapt down from the truck! No one had told me he was coming! I bounded and threw my arms around his legs, peering into the shadow of his Panama hat. He patted my head, and I was crushed against his belt buckle as he embraced my mother and Aunt Helga. My father began untying Aunt Sarah's furniture and I stood by, burning with excitement, yearning to help. Too young ito lift heavy things, I ran back and forth between the movers, winding the rope, lifting small articles and generally getting in the way until my father spoke sharply to me. I stopped short and stared up at him. Daylight poured over the hills, and I could see his face: unshaven, pale, a grittiness about the eyes and mouth. Tears filled my eyes. He had never spoken to me that way before. My mouth suddenly tasted sharp and bitter as pennies. Later, as he ate hot biscuits in the bunkhouse, I stood |