Mercer was a funny street, more of an alley than a road. Or maybe a country lane. Unpaved and surrounded by trees and brush. It didn’t look like it belonged in the city any more than the farm did. This was a secret place, an odd overgrown pocket, a quiet spot buried in the busy middle of Atlanta. I always slowed down on Mercer. I couldn’t help kicking at the gravel, stopping for honeysuckle or the wild raspberries that sometimes crept up on the chain-link fence. Where the road dead-ended at a wooden gate, I stopped, lifted the latch, and stepped inside.

I hadn’t been to Red’s Farm in forever. It was private property, but Farmer Red, the guy who’d owned the place for as long as I could remember, didn’t mind if you hung out, just so long as you didn’t mess with the chickens or leave any trash behind. It was funny to be there now, alone. Everything was silent and green. Usually someone was wandering around in the distance, along the back field or down by the community garden, but today the place was dead silent. I stood at the top of the hill and looked around. At the rope swing hanging limp; at the rusty old pump, dripping; at a single yellow butterfly coasting on the still, hot afternoon air.

But then, suddenly, there was a burst of cool wind, so unexpected it made me jump. It was like the air at the mouth of a cave. It only lasted a second, just one big gasp, like the whole farm was breathing around me. It came and went, clear and bright. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, I felt . . . refreshed. I started walking down the hill.

It wasn’t possible to be there without remembering. Summer-evening walks with my family down the gravel road, and picnics on a heavy blanket laid in the tall grass. We’d take turns on the rope swing, and then run back to the blanket for cold Publix fried chicken and strawberries, warm from the sun. Mom and Dad would sip their beers and we’d wait for the fireflies to come out. That wasn’t something we’d done in a long time. Years. Maybe picnics stopped when kids quit catching fireflies? Or maybe my parents had just gotten busy and forgotten about picnics?

I pushed the thought from my head as I headed down the hill toward the creek. I was only going to walk along the creek bed home, trudge through sand and kudzu. That was why I was here. It was just a way home. That was all I ever meant to do—go home that day.