I got the call today at 4:22 PM while I was standing in the middle of Miller’s Feed & Seed looking at those specific green bags of fertilizer (the 10-10-10 blend, not the 20-20-20 because that stuff will burn your lawn to a crisp if the sun hits it wrong). It was Jim from the corporate office. He offered me the Director of Regional Logistics—which sounds like a big deal, right? A real "local boy makes good" type of situation for a guy who grew up in a town where the biggest landmark is a rusted-out water tower. It comes with a 38% raise and a company truck, one of those new Silverados with the leather seats that smell like a brand-new wallet. My wife, she’s already talking about finally fixing the porch screen that’s been flapping since that big storm last July (the one that took out the old oak tree behind the shed, I think it was the 14th). But the thing is, this job means I’m basically living in a suitcase three weeks out of every month. I’d be hitting the hubs in Omaha and Des Moines and even up to Chicago, which is fine, I guess, but it’s a lot of driving. A lot of hours staring at the white lines on I-80. My dad used to say that those lines will hypnotize a man until he forgets who he is, or at least forgets where he started from, which is a bit dramatic but maybe he had a point. I already feel like I'm fading out a bit. Like, I’m here but I’m not *here*. Does that make sense? Probably not. I’m sitting here on the porch at 2:14 AM (can’t sleep, obviously) and the crickets are so loud it feels like they’re inside my skull. It’s a very quiet kind of loud. I looked at Leo today while he was eating his Cheerios—he’s four now, or he will be in exactly twenty-two days—and he had this little smear of milk right on his chin. I just watched it. I didn't even wipe it off. I just sat there counting how many times he chewed one single spoonful. Thirty-four times. I’m going to miss the T-ball games and the way he smells like dirt and sunshine after playing outside. And Mia, she’s already ten, starting to get that look in her eyes like she knows more than I do, which she probably does. If I take this, I’m a ghost. A provider-ghost who sends checks and buys the expensive LEGO sets from the airport kiosks. *Es lo que hay*, as my old neighbor used to say when his tractor broke down, but it feels like I’m trading my actual life for a better version of someone else’s life. Everyone in town already knows. Word travels faster than a brushfire around here; I ran into Mrs. Gable at the post office at 9:15 this morning and she congratulated me before I’d even told my own mother. She said, "Big things for a local boy," and I just nodded like a total fool. You can't really say no to a Director role in a place where the biggest employer is the poultry plant or the school district. You just don't do that.