She stood rigid, wondering what to do. Surely if they had missed the yard, they would have blundered into the sheds or the stockyards instead? Unless they had slipped somehow between the two? But weren’t animals supposed to have a fine-tuned homing instinct? Perhaps not, or perhaps the ferocity of flying sand had addled it. Should she wait out the storm, or try to retrace her steps? But just turning to face the screaming wind was enough to decide her. Crouching, Sara shuffled closer to the nearest goat and bent her head, fighting the instinct to get up and run before the wind, fleeing the terror pressing upon her. Her throat and mouth were parched and Helen’s accusing words rang in her head. You should know better. You’re dehydrated. How could she have been so stupid as to wander into the cloaking storm and expect the animals to guide her? They would think her a fool, a city ninny without the sense to come in out of the rain. She welcomed the stream of reproach and remorse her brain was manufacturing because behind it all, as she huddled there with her fingers dug into her arms with force enough to mark them, another terror pushed at her.
