You don't have a commute. Which sounds like a perk. You walk out the back door and you're at work. You walk back in and you're home. Except you're not really home. Not mentally. Your body crossed the threshold but your brain is still out there — running the list, replaying what didn't get done, half-listening to dinner while planning tomorrow's first move.

He's seen it happen to other people. The guy down the road who kept the farm but lost everything else. He doesn't talk about it. But he thinks about it. And she's tired in a way that goes bone deep while wondering quietly, guiltily, what it would feel like if the farm just wasn't there. Neither of them is saying any of this out loud. This post is for both of them.