I walk past the Kwik Trip where you found me in the dumpster, tunneling for canned food. Past the VFW where you bought us burgers, newspaper now taped over the windows. The bowling alley where you paid for my lane. The diamond where you coached the Raiders, now being mowed by a girl, about sixteen, cap brim curved and lowered, swimsuit dark beneath her shirt, a spotless Midco scoreboard lifting above the outfield fence — HOME: nothing, AWAY: nothing. Your house is totally different. No garden beds, no covered porch where I slept. ATVs leak gasoline in a corrugated shed. When I knock, a stranger answers the door and holds it half open. I try to explain. He lowers his eyes and I know you’re dead. He’s nothing like you: no leather hat, no walking cane, no bend in the nose from the boxing days. But just like you, he could choose to shake his head, wave goodbye. He’s not my family, not my friend. Doesn’t owe me shit. But just like you, he asks my name, and where I’m from, and where I’m trying to get to. And pretty soon, he’s inviting me in.