The dust cloud extended hundreds of yards out in front of them, like a lingering jet stream hovering just above ground. A rusted, old pickup truck rounded the high sand dune next to them and within seconds was pulling up next to the traveling caravan. The window rolled down and a curly-headed thirtysomething stuck his face out, the sun reflecting off his Aviator sunglasses.
“Nice pack string! Where you guys going?” he hollered above the loud rumble of the engine.
“We’re crossing America,” Tim yelled back. The kid didn’t miss a beat.
“What for?” he continued to holler, seemingly unaware that he could turn off the motor to have a conversation at a decent decibel level.
“We’re missionaries. We’re asking people to pray for the nation.” Tim got a little louder at the end to be sure he was heard.
