All I need to get is eggs and milk. Eggs and milk. In and out. I make my way to the little corner grocery, only to find a new video store in its place. I sit in the parking lot for a while staring at the cold, grey letters and blinding white lights. I can’t bring myself to go to the industrial-sized grocery complex just outside of town, so I drive home in the dark and say I’ll go tomorrow. Only about half the street lights are on, and it reminds me of learning to drive on Saturday nights with my sister, overwhelmed with pride at learning how to use the turn signal. Back then, I thought learning to drive was all I needed to know, and then I’d be overflowing with wisdom. But I’ve got so much left to learn sometimes it scares me.

I’m still a few miles away from the house, and I see a ramshackle I don’t remember just off the road. Then I realize it’s the old, wooden barn we used to tell stories about. My whole childhood, it was deteriorating from the outside in, but I must have missed its last breath.

I’ve got two months at home before I head back to the city. I’m already exhausted after one night, and I can feel the heart of the city pounding in my heavy head.