“I mean, that sort of wood design is very in right now. ¬†How could they even afford that?”

“The wood with bark still on it is hip?”


“Well, those are ceders that fell in the hurricane. They just went and picked them up.”

“I wonder how much work it was to take it to the mill and back. Are there even mills around here?”

Someone points to a tattooed, bicycle capped, bearded man without a shirt on. “It’s his. He has a mill.”

We stare.

“Think he wants to be our friend?”



The smooth road and shady trees break. The space is filled with sun, cut grass, and a rolling field. I hear people, see cars, and smell smoke and lunch and diesel.

“I’m home,” I say, just managing to hear the faintest of banjo picking.