I drove back into Haddon, Michigan, on a Thursday evening in October, ten years after I left.

Same road. Same water tower. Same sign at the edge of town. Welcome to Haddon. Home of Haddon Furniture Works since 1921.

Somebody had spray-painted a big black X over the second line.

I was driving my dad's old pickup. A 1998 Ford, faded red, with a dent in the tailgate and a hundred and ninety thousand miles on the clock. The heater only worked on the highest setting.

It was homecoming weekend. Main Street was full of cars. I parked outside the Rusty Nail, the only bar in town, and went in for a beer.

The first person I saw was Brett Dawson.

He was sitting at the same corner table where he used to sit when we were twenty-one. Same Haddon Hornets jacket. A little heavier. A little less hair.

He looked up, saw me, and his face split into a huge grin.

“No way! Wyatt Harlan!”

The whole table turned around.

Brett looked out of the window at my dad's truck. Then back at me.

“Ten years, man,” he said. “And you're still driving your daddy's truck?”

He laughed and slapped the table.

“What happened, bro? Big city chew you up and spit you out?”