Near Butte, Montana, January, 2078, Saturday…

"Pa, one of the calves is missing!"

Ward Hastings looked at his breathless little girl, concern on his face.

"The sad-faced calf is gone," the girl repeated.

Sally Hastings with Blacky, the family border collie, had been sent out to round up their small herd. It was one of her usual chores at the end of the day, weather permitting. In bad weather he usually sent one of her older brothers, or went himself.

He walked slowly towards the corral. As concerned as he was, he still had to admire the Montana skyline. There were some thunderheads in the west, their edges turned deep red by the setting sun. In spite of all the snow on the ground, it was a pleasant day. Winters had become less harsh over the years. He knew some scientists said it was still global warming, but most said it was turning around. It was still cold enough.

His practiced eye surveyed the small herd. Sally was right. One calf missing. He leaned on the gate post, talking more to Blacky than Sally.

"Now, what do you suppose happened to that critter?"

When the dog didn't answer, Sally squeezed in between the dog and Wade.

"I bet some coyote got him."

"Always the pessimist," Wade told her.

He always hoped that his cynicism wouldn't be detected by his children, but they picked up on it. Gone was the day that a man who loved the land could make a living on it. You couldn't even own it anymore. It had all been gobbled up by agribusiness. Grandfather, father, and now Wade were essentially sharecroppers, planting what the agribusiness overlords told them to plant. They were allowed a few chickens and cows if they didn't interfere with making the year's quotas. And when he missed them, Wade's debt grew.

His grandfather's brother had tried to fight it back in Iowa during the ethanol craze. The politicians had hopped on that bandwagon, claiming that corn would make the country independent of foreign oil. They didn't pay much attention to the chemical physics that said it cost more energy to make ethanol from corn than you could get from burning the ethanol as fuel. Once the government subsidies were canceled and the automakers could no longer get subsidized for their fuel efficient cars, the corn-ethanol agribusiness concerns went under. Great uncle Joe had walked out to the barn and put a shotgun in his mouth one fine Sunday morning.

Ward wasn't about to do that, no matter how bad things got. He figured that if the shit really hit the fan, he would take the family down to that old mine with every damn gun they owned. They could hold off the fucking marines there if they had to. He would certainly go down fighting.