My wife grew up in a very very small town. The first time I went with her to her parent’s house, I drove and she was engrossed in reading a book.
“Let’s go in the back way.”
“Where is that?”
“Turn left at Calvin Adams’ store.”
We passed a rural intersection with nothing on the corner. She looks up and punches my arm.
“You missed the turn.”
“There was no store there!”
“Oh, it burned down years ago. Now turn right at Jack Simpson’s house.”
We pass another empty intersection. There is nothing to see but cotton fields and a clump of trees yonder in the distance. She looks up and punches my arm.
“You missed the turn.”
“Aw c’mon, there’s no house here.”
“It’s behind those trees. You can’t see it from the road.”
A couple of minutes later, without looking up, “He doesn’t live there anymore.”
We finally got there and I’m talking to her mom.
“Which way did you come in?”
“We came in the back way. I missed the turn at Calvin Adams’ store.”
She nodded. “It burned down years ago.”
“Then I missed the turn at Jack Simpson’s house.”
Another nod. “You can’t see it from the road.”
There was a long pause and she added, “He doesn’t live there anymore.”