Indiana looks too flat for anything to stick. There aren’t hills or rises, barely a ditch to lie in if a tornado blows through. When I fly home, I expect the plane to bounce along the runway like a skipping stone and end up back in the air because the ground is too frictionless for the wheels to grip.

The corn and soybeans only break for sprawling strip malls, and my body wants to sleep. I chug caffeine instead. At every cafe, the barista asks what flavor I want in my latte. Mostly, I make my own in the four-cup coffeemaker that came to college with me.

I go for a run on the highway’s shoulder for the scenery of cows and vegetable stands. The neighborhood sidewalks form a loop, and running there feels futile since the facades repeat every ten houses. The first time I answered the door and was mistaken for the homeowner, I was a teenager and horrified. There’s still a fatalist feeling to the place, a warning no one can avoid the house, car, and lawn forever.

One of my best friends since childhood is having a baby shower with a keg, and her girlfriends attending are the ones with the darkest senses of humor. We keep out of earshot of her father-in-law the reverend. Our friend tells us how ruthlessly her parasite, as she calls it, collects nutrition for itself. From her bones if she doesn’t eat enough calcium. From her muscles if she doesn’t eat enough protein.

I resist how quickly I get used to the farmland again, and I wonder why I’ve always fought so hard to move away. But then the first morning back in DC, I walk to work through the park and can’t believe that I got exactly what I wanted.