But that’s not exactly why we were all in the car. Trevor had wanted to care for his mother on his own, make trips back and forth between his mother’s house in Hunther, Wisconsin and our condo in Chicago. He hadn’t wanted to disrupt the kids’ school or my job at the clinic.

The reason we were all in the car was because I had insisted. “Let’s just rent a house near your mom. You’ll be close to her without all that driving back and forth.” It was true enough, but I had my own reasons I needed to be here.

We passed a green rectangular sign. Hunther, pop. 8,553.

No welcome sign, only the facts: where you were, and how many were there with you.

Trevor and I were both born in this outworn town, clunky with its scattering of uninspiring shops, wide open with allergen-spewing prairies and failing dairy farms, and stunning with its clear rock-bed river, edged by old forest, meandering through the town proper.

Trevor stayed in town until high school graduation. I was only six years old when my family moved to a neighboring state. And now, at thirty-seven, I was back.

“We’re getting close, guys,” Trevor said, excitement in his voice, as if this were a vacation.

“Take Me To The River” played at low volume on the radio—Al Green’s remastered version by Talking Heads, eerie and captivating. Trevor had magic radio fingers. Only good tunes when he drove.

We passed a strip of businesses. An auto shop called Doc Jerry’s, a stretch of pastel-painted, stand-alone motels in a gravel lot, a monster truck tire leaning against a wire fence, a resale furniture shop called Auntie’s Antiques, and a diner named Marjory’s Greasy Spoon and Donuts. All those personal names gave off a conspiratorial, fraternity feel. They were in the club, and you weren’t.

“I already put our sheets on the beds,” Trevor said. “There’s milk, coffee, and sandwich stuff in the fridge. Dishes in the cabinets. Your favorite mug too.”

He was looking for props. No harm in giving them. “Aw, that was nice of you,” I said, half sincere, half teasing. Which mug was he talking about? I didn’t have a favorite.

He glanced at me and smiled.

First thing anyone notices about Trevor: his wavy blond hair. The man had damn good hair. He kept it short enough, but his hair gave off a vibe—artsy musician or tough-guy hockey player, depending on the clothes he wore. His eye color was hard to pin down. They could look green, gray, or brown depending on the lighting. His eye color said, Hey, whatever you want, I can work with you, baby. His eye color matched his personality.

Emily and Sawyer both resembled their father. Both blond and breezy with chameleon eyes. His children, in every sense of the phrase. I was the oddball.