The town where I grew up isn’t the same place as when my friends were playing army in the backyard or driving home from football practice. I’ve moved on, and now that the house where I grew up belongs to someone else, some other young couple starting a family just like my parents years ago, it’s fixed firmly in the past.
In 2004, a drifter murdered the 79-year-old librarian of Poseyville, Indiana–my home town–in cold blood. It was an open and shut case that shocked the tiny town, and it made me rethink my definition of home.
There is a point when you’re cleaning out the drainage grate of an auto shop, on your hands and knees and up to your elbows in filth, when you realize that at 19 years old you ought to think carefully about your future.