It's all about perspective.

Possible thunderstorms.

"It looks like it might skirt around us," says the woman who's shoulders slope in agony. "I'm hoping to save the tomato plants from a certain death if I don't get 'em in the ground." Her sideways grin resembles mine, I'm in shock from the tour of the scant grocery store pickins. We're scouting for REAL food. Among the bologna, chicken fingers, mushy white bread, 5 gallon jar of dill pickles, canned peaches, pears, fruit cocktail, ice cream bars, piles of Budweiser beer, and Dinty Moore stew that appears to have been there since 1939 when the town of Interior school was founded. We leave with a stack o' flour tortillas and Visine to remedy red, watery eyes from the bits of pollen tossed around by the mighty winds.

"Doppler Radar reports, the storm will be sweeping in tonight. We could get a little rain or a lot, I don't know. Let me check my phone, that's easier, yep, looks like we'll get some weather," the youthful blonde in a National Park Ranger boy scout green uniform at the Front Gate determines. She just moved here and doesn't know what our housing options are. She doesn't make us feel very encouraged about tenting tonight so we move onto the next resource.

Gate Agent at the Camp Grounds cheerily tells us "The weather forecast says 80% chance of rain. We could get an inch or two. If it gets bad, we send the Ranger out with his PA system to warn you. You can make your way to the women's showers, there aren't any windows in that building. Don't worry, we NEVER get tornados here. I'm in #9 so you can come knock on my door anytime you're concerned. Have a great night."

"It’ll stop soon enough," the sales clerk at the Badlands Lodge Shop declares. He has no clue what to expect with the weather. “Rain," he says.

Our tent slopes in grief. The winds are determined to topple the nylon canopy and metal poles. My side of the tent is flat. Things look v e r y wet and the sky ominous. Bolts of lightning shatter the comfort from one side of the smoky blue horizon to the other. We sit in the car and contemplate our choices. Wait It Out is first on the list.

The neighbor’s brilliant green tent is nearly whisked away with a big whoosh. Three young men scamper out, adjusting the lines, pulling and pushing from every side. They canter to the car and disappear behind the sedan doors.

The guy with an extra wide station wagon with Quebec plates fails to be dissuaded. He parks under the scanty panic table roof, adjusting his publication a number of times, stands up to move his collapsable chair to the back, folds it and plops down at the bench, moves again to the other side of the table. Appears comfortable until another gust of wind and rain hit him in the back. He finally makes his way to the wagon with defiance. He sits and wonders.

We experiment with the back seats, to deliberate the viability of sleeping in the car. We methodically move the loaded cooler, garment bag, numerous cloth food sacks, cameras, cell phones, books, and toiletries to the front seats and floor boards. A mad dash for the now lopsided tent gives us the chance to haul the rest of our bedding to the car. This concludes our sleeping arrangement. We glance into the ample RV windows, a short distance from the car. We can see the TV flashing a comedy from the cozy luxury of their living room.

The car quivers. We shake and rattle with the booms from the thunder. Wind whips across the plains, under the car, and over the tent.

We can’t bear looking at the abandoned, blue,faithful friend. I hang a beach towel across the driver’s side window to block out her whimpering.

We’ll rescue her in the morning, we promise.