I swear, I drove all the way home—all five hours of it, through fields that all look the same, even though this is MY home, my *childhood* home—and the first thing my mom says, after I haul my duffel bag and a box of groceries in, is to some random dude in a beat-up pickup truck who I guess was dropping off feed or something, “Oh, don’t mind him, he’s just one of the farmhands.” I mean, farmhand? Seriously? After all the trouble I went to, just to come back for a weekend, and she can’t even tell her own son from the hired help? It’s not like I’ve changed THAT much, I don't think, although I did get a haircut, and maybe I lost a little weight, but still.