I haven’t left Prosperity since getting into town, a fact I realize as we drive past the endless fields and farmland that blanket the outskirts of the city. It’s a nice break from the chaos of last weekend, an away game in Atlanta. The silence is exactly what I’ve needed. Okie students always joke that they’re the outermost layer of Oklahoma City, but they’re wrong – this is the outermost layer. Maybe a farmhouse every half mile or so, if you’re lucky; the rest of it is for grazing or crop.

We whip past the sign: EAGLE ROCK, POP. 562. With the sun beginning to go down post-Monday practice, the sky is lit up in dusky oranges and pinks in the background. It’s fucking unreal. I remember coming down here to play pickup, guys versus girls. A couple of them had grown up with traditional Choctaw stickball and then moved into lacrosse, and they were lethal. Loss was imminent.

‘Wow.’

May turns into the little intersection that takes you towards Main Street. When we hit the tiny strip, it’s just as I remember. The church is on one side, the bakery and grocer on the other, and away in the distance are the feed and tractor supply stores, all bracketed by endless clear skies, burning with sunset. God. I’d forgotten what these parts of Oklahoma looked like after years in Boston, and I hate myself for it right away.

May rolls a window down and extends her hand out into the open space, wiggling her fingers against the wind. Her curls dance about in total and utter freedom. Her face, for the first time since I’ve seen her again after all these years, is truly at peace, her eyes fluttering blissfully. Disturbing her feels like a sin.

We pass the corner café and bar – a true hole-in-the-wall spot – before driving another three or so minutes out to the red-awninged feed shop. A left takes us down a rocky dirt road that rattles the truck, smoothing out when we hit the hand-painted sign that tells us we’ve reached the Veracruz Ranch.

The lowing of multiple cattle greets us through May’s open window when she pulls the truck up the narrow driveway and parks it. May’s Birkenstock sandals smack the asphalt, and she yawns with a stretch. ‘Might need a nap after this, but hey, best get it over with.’

I remove my cap, unfortunately allowing the setting sun to beat down on the top of my head. By Boston standards, it’s way too early in the year for it to be hot like this. ‘Is this us finally making good on your mom’s dinner invitation? Why are we here, exactly?’