Noah is twenty-nine, his esophagus burns whenever he consumes anything with tomato sauce. His back and knees ache all the time for no reason. He carries a roll of Tums and a bottle of Advil everywhere he goes. Every time he turns a corner, he’s exactly where he expects to be. Geography holds no surprises or inconsistencies. He’s tired all the time, exhausted by his job. Sometimes he catches himself looking at the sky, wondering what Ashland would look like from above.
