Even in Nebraska, a new vulnerability

"I was thinking about joining the reserves," says Miranda Wodke, almost amazed at her own words. "Not now."

Miles from ... well, anything

Now, the isolation that once seemed as if it could smother the happiness of youth in the unvarying sameness of small-town life has instead become a cherished buffer, giving some measure of protection from the encroachment of an unsettled world. Indeed, it's hard to imagine anyplace farther away from everywhere else.

Set three-quarters of a mile above sea level on the upward slope of the continent's rise to meet the Rockies, Alliance is reminiscent of scores of other prairie towns, with its red-brick streets and Victorian storefronts. But its isolation is almost total.

Nicknamed "an oasis in the Sand Hills," Alliance lies at the western edge of the largest uninterrupted area of mid- and tallgrass prairie in North America - a region of whiskered swells and lonely cattle that is larger than Massachusetts, yet with fewer people than Ham Lake, Minn. For tonight's game, the opposing team needed to travel 300 miles just to get here.

Since Sept. 11, however, that encompassing emptiness has been seen as a good thing. "Ask any of us before all this, and the first thing they would say is, 'We want to get away from here,' " says Courtney Blume, mindlessly tugging and twisting her necklace. "Now, it's the opposite.... It makes you appreciate living in a small town."

Bill Reno has seen this shift from his office at Alliance High. The bespectacled guidance counselor stands in the last row of Bulldog stadium, arms folded and intent on the Bulldogs' steady march toward another touchdown on their way to a 24-7 win.

When a student approaches - quietly waiting until she's noticed - his focus shifts from the game to her.

"Is that a new haircut?" he asks. It is, she responds. "I like it," Mr. Reno replies.

He knows almost all the parents and students here, it seems, and he says, for many of them, their mindset has changed. Residents are thinking twice about leaving homes and cars unlocked.

Parents are less enthused about sending their kids to far-away colleges, and some seniors don't want to go, either. Chadron State, only 45 minutes away, is becoming a serious consideration for more students, adds Reno.

"They want to be closer to home," he says.

Sticking close to home

Count Kristi among them. While she hasn't decided what she'll do next, she knows one thing: She will not go to the East Coast.

For now, she and others are happy to remain in the prairie's broad embrace - and hope the terror comes no closer.

"Sometimes we feel isolated," adds Reno. "But right now, we're all glad we live here."

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