“Wayne, I want to go home.” He nodded, and then picked a stick up off the ground and started chewing on it. “Home is a slippery thing. What we yearn for is often not what we really need. I have what I need here. Love of the unconditional sort. I don’t have burritos or written language or gummy bears or you, but I do appreciate my life of fishing, woodcraft, and sleeping in the big pile next to the fire. And all those stars up there. Nothing here hurts except physical pain.”
