Buy Here ONE P eople have all sorts of ideas about what they’d do if it happened to them. They’d tell their friends. They’d make that call. They’d leave. They certainly wouldn’t continue on like normal, banging out personal essays or temping at whatever online mag needed a freelance editor for the day. They’d tell their family (assuming they still had family in their lives to tell), they’d keep themselves busy (pottery class! political campaigns! yoga!). They’d heal, and they’d move on, and they’d rebuild their lives. That’s what I’d always thought, too. The exit for Woodstock, New York, came into view, my eyes fl itting nervously to the rearview mirror as I quickly pulled off the ramp. Suddenly, I was in the country, pastures and horses, run- down schoolhouses, abandoned barns, and bucolic churches sprinkled over the landscape: Rural Mad Libs. I found Shadow Creek Road at the end of a particularly snakelike stretch. I turned, so eager to get out of the car and g...
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