My dad and I are both (very poorly) singing the "Free Bird" guitar solo when the stench hits.

Oh god. The smell of pig shit.

I didn't remember it being this bad.

"Fuck," I say, wiping away tears from my eyes. It makes my headache about a million times worse. "I forgot about this part."

My dad laughs. "They don't call us Sioux Shitty for nothing."

I'm gagging now—the "Free Bird" solo is on full blast, and I'm gagging. "This is horrible. How do we live here?"

"You'll get used to it again," he promises. "Just imagine how bad it would be if we were going farther east. Must be a pig farm around here. Maybe dairy."

"This is torture. Smelling this is"—I cough and wipe my eyes again—"torture."

"Oh, come on now," Dad says. "Don't be a baby. You're used to it. Deep down. You've just gotta put up with it for another minute or so."

"Turn the A/C off, please. For the love of god." The smell will get sucked up and circulated around the car for the rest of the drive home. "I beg of you."

He's still laughing as he turns it off. A few minutes later, when the first song on his AC/DC album has started and the car's interior is a little more humid than before, thick raindrops begin to splatter against the front windshield.

"Godammit," he says, sighing and turning the windshield wipers on. Car headlights pop up down the road ahead, and Dad turns his brights off too. The other car approaches, its high beams seemingly still on, nearly blinding us completely. Dad flashes his brights, and then the other car flashes its real brights. I wince and cover my eyes. I think I've just burned my retinas.

"Jesus fuck. These new LED lights are dangerous," he mumbles, turning his wipers up another level as the car jets by.

"For real," I agree. "What a douche."

Thunder rumbles overhead. Within a minute or so, the overbearing stench of pig shit is gone. The rain becomes so thick that Dad is forced to slow down, winding carefully along the road that goes past North Sioux city, then cuts through the Dakota Dunes area before leading into the main chunk of the city, where we'll get off I29 and onto Gordon Drive.

"That's what I don't get about living here," he says, turning the wipers up on full gear and slowing down as much as possible as we make our way along the road that curves between the Dunes and North Sioux City, the South Dakotan part of the city.

"Yeah?"

"The flooding is the worst here. I don't even wanna buy another damn house, especially in the Dunes, but your mother is still on it. Doesn't wanna live in Lawton, says we have the money and that it's pointless to be driving ten, twenty minutes into town every day. I just don't get it."

"Yeah," I say, staring ahead down the road. It's so hard to see, but it's all familiar. When I was a kid, I hated living in Lawton. We didn't have a library. We didn't have a grocery store. I was so grateful when my parents decided to enroll me in a Sioux City elementary school roughly fifteen minutes away instead of the "local" school five minutes closer.

Our town is so small that we held the junior high/high school, and a nearby town, Bronson, held the pre-K through sixth grade school. Kirby was from Bronson, and we ended up at the same high school—I know we were both thanking god for that one. The thought of graduating with only fifty-something other students sounds like a nightmare, personally.

But, now?

I'm kind of looking forward to being back.

Still, though, I can understand why my mom would want to leave. All of her friends live on the other side of the city, where she's worked for the past ten-plus years. Lawton has less than nothing going on.

"I mean," my dad continues, "what's the point in buying a house here anyways? We move to Dakota Dunes, and we have to change our residencies, which means changing our licenses and our registration, and for what? To buy a house we can barely afford in a neighborhood with million dollar houses and a basement that can't stay dry? I told her no—told her I could do Sioux City, but no Dunes, and no North Sioux City. But she's still on about it. Economy's shit right now anyhow. Who's gonna buy a house in Lawton?"

"Yeah, no, that makes sense," I say. When I was a kid, Mom's best friend lived in the Dunes. She moved away to Dallas when I was in middle school, but I know Mom was obsessed with her neighborhood. She and I had talked about wanting to move there when I was in high school—I wanted it to be while I was in high school, of course. It just seemed way cooler than Lawton. But I didn't think she actually wanted to go.

When we pass by the Dunes, Dad and I are pretty much silent. The stench of pig shit has waned, and I'm back to fighting off sleep. By the time we're actually driving through the city, I'm so tired that I don't think I could say much of anything, even if I wanted to. The heavy rain certainly isn't helping. I know that I'm going to pass out as soon as I'm remotely close to a mattress.

In my pocket, my phone buzzes. A text from Roz.

Hope you're okay. Missed you today. Stopped Dr. Charm from confiscating your chair (he's so needy?? and for what???). Also hope you had a safe flight. I love you so much, Marcie. I'm here if you need anything. Enjoy Iowa <3

I text back a quick Thanks, Roz. I love you too, ignoring the sudden stinging of my eyes and the discomfort wrapping itself around my stomach. I set my phone face-down in my lap as AC/DC ramps up "Back In Black." We're out of the city again, passed the Menards and the Perkins that mark what feels like the edge of civilization to me. (It's been so long, I think I want to eat at Perkins, of all places.)

Gordon Drive turns into Highway 20, which is surrounded on all sides by wide stretches of largely flat prairie, broken on occasion by fields of soy and sparse shelter belts, sad little groupings of trees placed by farmers to try to keep the ever-present Great Plains wind from tearing away at their crops too much.

It's too dark to see, of course, but I know this area like the back of my hand. I could still manage the drive without giving it much of a second thought. Where New York manages to put me on edge, this? This wide expanse of flat, green earth, plus the occasional tree? It's relaxing.

Most of the streets in Lawton are named after trees. Ours, right on the edge of town, is one of the only exceptions. My bedroom window, on our little second floor, looks out onto our white-fenced backyard and, behind that, a cornfield. This time of year, it'll be a deep, lush green, spreading out a few miles, interrupted by the occasional gravel road.

My desk used to be set up right underneath my window. On rainy nights like tonight, I'd pop off my bug screen and wind the panes open, sticking my hands out to let the rain tickle my outstretched fingers as I worked away on my (then, considerably younger) Chromebook.

When we pull up into the drive and my dad opens the garage door, I rub the sleep away from my eyes and try to smile at him.

His smile is just as tired. Justifiably so. "Ready to go to bed?"

I open the passenger door and sigh. "If I don't get some shut eye soon, I'm going to lose the plot." The whole "getting no sleep" thing last night is really taking its toll on me. My head is throbbing, my joints ache, and I feel like I could pass out at any moment.

"That's how I know we're related," he says. "Your mom'll be up early, so she'll probably find some excuse to get you up with her."

This time, it's not so much a sigh, but a groan. "Yeah, okay."

"Maybe we can get breakfast tomorrow morning before me and your mom go to work? We could do Dirk and Eileen's? And then for supper, we'll go over to the Campbell's barn for some barbeque."

I nod, my eyes closed. "Yeah, yep. If I can manage to will myself to wake up tomorrow, sure."

"That's the spirit." He grabs my suitcase, and we make our way to the door that leads inside. I'm almost taken aback when he stops on the top garage step, wraps his free arm around me, and drags me in, and presses a soft kiss against my forehead. I almost pull away on instinct—we're a huggy family, but not much else beyond that. It's just a surprise.

"Look at that. I missed you so much," he says, squeezing me tightly. Outside, thunder booms. It feels like it shakes the whole house, and I don't even mind it. "It's so good to see you, kiddo."

The initial shock is easily overcome. I squeeze him back. Being a couple steps below him, I almost feel like a little kid again. "Thanks, Dad. I missed you too."

He squeezes me one last time and heads inside, shucking his shoes off at the little mat next to the garage door. "Alrighty," he says. My suitcase is left next to the door. "I'll be up for maybe ten minutes, so lemme know if you need anything. Otherwise, g'night, and see you in the morning. Love you."

I take off my shoes and bid him a goodnight in turn. He heads into his room at the end of the hall, and I slowly make my way to the beige living room, glancing around to see what's different. Same couch from high school, same TV, new plants, new art print hanging above the sofa. I turn off the lights behind me and make my way upstairs.

I can't shake that old feeling from when I was a kid of there being some kind of monster lurking in the dark, waiting for me to shut off the light so it could chase me up the stairs and devour me whole. Now, I'm for sure more reasonable, but I still walk at a faster pace than I would with the lights on.

The hallway is completely dark. I stub my toe on some kind of box at the top of the stairs and spend the rest of the short walk to my room silently cursing under my breath.

When I flip the lightswitch to my room off, the first thing I realize is that it doesn't smell like me anymore. I guess it's been a long time since I lit any candles or used any cheap body spray in here. My bed, instead of being in the center of my room like it was all throughout high school and college, is now shoved against the wall opposite the window. My desk has been moved, too; it's in the opposite corner now, shoved a few feet over from its designated place beneath the window.

Most of my books are in the little family library room in the basement. I'm pretty sure my dad only made it because he wanted a project to complete, something to do with his hands, and nine year-old me was all too happy to donate my entire book collection to the cause. Most of the books down there are mine, combined with Mom's old psychology textbooks and the few novels she'd manage to sift through every couple years. There are two comfy reading chairs that my grandpa had worked with my mom to reupholster, and I picked out the dusty, emerald-ish teal paint for the walls. The whole family got together to do the actual painting.

Still, I always kept my favorite books up in my room. When I left for college, those were the ones that I took with me. They're all in Manhattan now, so my two little one-by-three cube shelves feel empty, barren.

My bedding is different, too. I don't know why I have the nice guest bedding instead of my high school bedding, which was this obnoxious pink floral pattern (I chose it when I was twelve, leave me alone), but I'm not exactly complaining. There's also a tub full of miscellaneous items on top of my low-sat dresser, but I can't even bring myself to complain.

Home. I'm home. I'm ... in Iowa.

I text Roz quickly, because it feels like something I should do: Made it home. Have fun on set tomorrow! I just need to get over being upset. And the best way to do that is to act like everything is normal.

... Yeah.

I open my dresser drawers and immediately pull out some of the old pajamas I left here when I went to college. I used to use them when I'd be back home for winter and summer break. Now, however, when I try to shimmy into my high school gym shorts, they cut in uncomfortably around the pudge gathered at my hips. It's not a lot of pudge, don't get me wrong—try as I might, I've never been able to pack on volume to my thin, boxish hips—but I'm surprised. My hips must be slightly wider now, and I suppose I might be half an inch or so taller, maybe more. Maybe I have had a second puberty.

And it avoided my flat, barren chest completely.

Being an adult is awesome. I can't wait to age out of my family's health insurance plan next year.

I slip on a similarly tattered shirt, also previously used in gym, which was a lot more oversized back in high school. It's slightly tight on my shoulders. I'll never understand those girls in romance books who seem to wear exclusively items from middle school, yet have purportedly supple breasts and tantalizing, grabbable hips. I just don't see it happening. Like, are all the gruff, giant men in those books into kids? It skeeves me out.

Hm. Maybe, if I rewrite more of my romance book, Addie should have a freshman fifteen arc. Talk about how high school clothing fits differently.

I squint down at my faded T-shirt. My blaring lack of tits and the T-shirt, still not entirely comfortable despite said blaring lack of tits, seem to stare back up at me. Yeah. You know what, yeah.

I crawl into bed and pull the covers up to my chin. I've had this mattress since the sixth grade, and I forgot that there's a giant me-sized indent left from years of always sleeping in the same spot. Thunder continues to rumble outside, and, after a few minutes of staring out towards the closed lilac curtains, I find myself shifting the unfamiliar covers aside, creeping across the kasha-colored carpet, and gently parting them. I'm greeted immediately by another flash of lightning.

I sort of just stand in front of the window for a moment, in my slightly-too-small shorts and my itchy cotton shirt, watching as the jagged streaks of light illuminate the rainswept cornfield behind the house. When I was in high school, I'd always take the long way home from my evening shifts, blasting music in my shitty little car and driving with the sunroof exposed but closed, doing laps between Lawton and the edge of the city.

When I'd finally get home, I'd creep into the kitchen, make myself a shitty cup of microwaved tea with the cheapest bags I could find at Hy-Vee or Walmart (Nigel would die), and sit awkwardly at my desk for as long as I could keep myself awake. I'd write till five in the morning sometimes, or until the storm stopped. My brain breaks would include popping off the bug screen, opening my window, and leaning out as far as I could stand to, sticking my arms out to the rain, leaning against the window sill and letting the summer downpour soak through my pajamas, right to the bone.

Even when I was a kid, I'd stay up late whenever it stormed. I'd open the curtains and lay awake in bed, my eyes peeled open, waiting to catch the next flash of lightning and count the time between them.

Which is what I do to close out the night. No writing, no reading, no texting. No allowing myself to stalk Ottilie and Roz on social media again, no letting myself read what I know they're talking about, because I saw enough of it last night. Probably too much of it last night.

My night is simple. I lay in bed with my eyes wide open, watching the torrential downpour and lightning, so still that I don't remember ever falling asleep.