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I used to fall for the boys with lifted trucks because it made me feel something, it made me feel alive in a town that was so dead.

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There were no secrets; everyone knew everything.

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I could see it moving. The separation, I mean. Slowly, like the motion of the sun setting on the horizon. It was subtle, but it was definitely moving down. That’s when I realized that humming sound from this morning was getting even louder.

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I can be really dumb sometimes, but it hurts when you point it out.

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I come from an area where all the local kids would go to Walmart for fun, because, well, that’s all there really was. Around here there is just SO MUCH TO DO and I want to do it all. Seems like a good problem to have, right? Wrong.

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It smells like poop. Frequently.

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The man behind the counter who knows your order before you ask, who hands you your coffee, extra cream, and says, “This one’s on me.”

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Practically everyone had worked at the Wal-Mart or the Dollar Tree. Or the drug store. Or the gas station. Or the Kohl’s. Or the JC Penny. Or the K-Mart.