I can’t help smiling. I sing along for a couple bars, not caring that I’m shit at carrying a tune. Raylan laughs and turns the music up more. He doesn’t know the lyrics, but he does the “Wa-ooo” accompaniment, like he’s my backup singer.

It only lasts for two minutes. Those old Motown songs are short. The song switches over to something else I don’t recognize, and Raylan turns the volume down again.

We’re driving in silence once more.

But we’re both smiling.

* * *

We get to Silver Run just before dinner time, having driven almost the whole day long with only a brief stop in Lexington to pee and buy some snacks. Neither one of us needed a real lunch, not after the massive breakfast we ate at the diner.

I can tell when we get close, because there’s a new tension in Raylan’s shoulders. He sits up a little straighter, looking around at fields and forest that he obviously recognizes in a very intimate way. I know without asking that this is where he grew up. This is his home.

“How close are we?” I say anyway, just to be sure.

“This is it,” Raylan says. “228 acres all around us. This road only goes one place.”

We pass through an open gate with an iron arch at the top. Recessed letters spell the name “Birch Haven.” I guess that’s fitting—that’s exactly what Raylan and I are looking for. A safe haven.

We’re driving steadily upward on the winding road. The slope is small and gradual, but soon a view unspools below us. The ranch house was built at the highest point for miles around.

I see several large barns and stables on either side, but the winding road takes us directly up to the ranch house itself. The house is three stories tall, with a high peaked roof and large plate-glass windows across the front to take advantage of its aerie-like positioning. It’s built of deep reddish-brown boards that aren’t much different from the ones on the side of the barn. Yet the house is much grander in shape and scale, with tall doorways, those expansive windows giving views on all sides, and generous verandas encircling the house on all three levels.

Large, leafy trees shade the windows and the decks. A pretty old-fashioned swing hangs from the ancient oak closest to the front door.

I didn’t hear Raylan’s conversation with his family—I assume he called them while I was in the shower. But he promised that he warned them we were coming.

In a way, that’s worse. As we pull up to the house, I can see several other cars parked in the drive, like they’ve all gathered for dinner. I know they must be excited to have Raylan home. He told me he hasn’t been back to visit in over three years.

I feel like I shouldn’t be here for this reunion. This is too personal, too intimate.