The hard blue nights of Akron, Ohio creep up on you like a slow disease, permeating you, enveloping you before you even know it is there. The monolithic silhouette of the grain silo juts from the ground like a thumb in rigor mortis and beyond it the wheat fields spread in all directions, endlessly. I throw a rock out, into the darkness, and it shatters a window. Dust kicks up in little swirls along the concrete, and I drain the last backwash of my PBR before releasing the kickstand on my bike and riding home for dinner. I’m 9.