Dusk crawls over county roads as the marching band drills to an off‑key beat that dies mid‑note. A truck coughs awake, headlights like open wounds, vanity plate letters flickering every time you blink. The trailer ricochets from corn as high as guilt to a wind‑turbine farm turning into a guillotine maze.

A ham‑radio kid triangulates a siren; a burned‑out deputy follows fence‑post shrines; homecoming floats drift through fog with feathers that aren’t props. Set‑pieces bite: a grain‑elevator avalanche of kernels and bone, a covered bridge that shortens behind you, a drive‑in screen lighting up with missing faces as the shadow crosses the projector beam.

Fan belts growl into calliope notes, wings drum the air, and taillights smear like fresh paint down a road that never ends. The town learns the old math—23 days, 23 years—while the last night circles like a vulture. Final sting: the truck door swings to an empty cab, and something lands on the water tower, smiling without a mouth.