By Linc
Note: This story originally appeared on LockedMEN. It is being shared here with permission.
Jack stepped off the bus with a grunt, duffel bag slung over one shoulder. The Minnesota air hit him like a slap — crisp and clean, with the faint scent of pine and chimney smoke.
He adjusted the bag, its weight a dull throb in his shoulder — eight pounds of nostalgia in the form of books, old electronics, and private indulgences. His laptop alone — stuffed with saved articles, annotated stories, and folder names he’d never say out loud — might as well have had a neon sign on it: Escapist with a wi-fi addiction.
Now there was no signal. Just gravel underfoot and a mile-long driveway between him and the farmhouse.
The structure rose in the distance like a memory of another century — broad porch, smoke curling from a chimney, silence thick enough to drown in. Jack squinted up at the steel roof catching the last of the sunset. The place looked more fortress than farm. He could already feel his city softness recoiling. But he needed this.
