On the way home, I ride past all the same houses I see every day. Same lawns and same trees. Same tire swing. Same falling-down chicken coop. Same cars on blocks, same stupid lawn decorations. The wheels of my bike roll over the busted sidewalk, weeds shooting up from the cracks. Brian says that people in Chester don’t know how to dream. He left all of this. He went to live on another planet, one that’s burning bright, but now he’s back—faded, broken, frail—and no one will tell me why.
