“I always have it in my head,” Lucky says, “that this place is nothing but dirt and corn. In all of my memories, I couldn’t wait to get out.” I nod because I know that. “And then…” he goes on. “Then I come back here, and it feels like…” He lets loose a breath, eyes drifting shut. “It feels good. And I don’t understand that. I don’t understand how one place”—he flicks his eyes to me—“can feel like the starting point.
