I explore my surroundings, considering each junction, crossroad or fork in the road an opportunity. Down the blacktop is an old barn, covered with kudzu. Turning left, I find the road narrows and abruptly ends at the river. The state highway winds past a Baptist church with a faded sign and then a brickyard with mounds of red clay waiting to become the façade of a McMansion in South Charlotte.
I never go home the way I came.
This is where we live.