The house is empty, isn't it? You see the broken glass and they tell you to stay back, that the house belongs to their great-great-aunt and that she moved away. When you look inside, the furniture is still there, like they ran away last minute and left their lives behind. You wonder what they were running from.
You walk your dog. The road is flat. You turn around and you've walked too far. Where is the town? Everything looks the same. You run but the road stretches on and on and on--
"We don't get many visitors," the man says, eyeing you. You say your last name. "I knew your grandpa. I helped him birth a cow." How does everyone know your grandpa here? His smile is suddenly too large, tobacco-stained teeth crowding his face, and hs hand closes around your upper arm. "Why don't you come in for a cup of coffee?"
There used to be a gas station. There used to be a general store. There used to be people. Who was it that you just talked to?
"My husband got a don't tread on me flag," she says. You don't have the heart to tell her what it really means. She's so excited. Somewhere in the brush and beneath the whine of the cicadas, something laughs. She'll find out soon enough.