As if roots had sprung from the gravel driveway and wound themselves around his ankles, he stood watching the aged red door, willing himself to find the courage to cross the yard and knock on it. Eight years of memories lay behind that peeling red paint, but it was one memory in particular that kept him rooted to his spot. “I can understand wanting a little adventure in life, son, but there’s a lot to be said for having a place to call home.” Henry had placed his hand on Vance’s shoulder. A teenage boy filled with anger and no particular place to aim it has a tendency to explode whether provoked or not, wounding anyone close with the shrapnel—at least that’s what Vance told himself now as he remembered his next words: “Only I’m not your son, and this isn’t my home.” Looking back, it was the closest thing to a home he’d ever known. The little farmhouse had been a safe place where he had learned so much about being a man.
