And so it was decided. The asking price for the land was well below what they’d budgeted, but still, they put in a lowball offer just to see what the counteroffer would be. To their surprise, their offer was accepted immediately. “I guess the guy really was a motivated seller,” Nate said. Two months later, they closed, never actually meeting the seller—a lawyer represented him, saying only that Mr. Decrow was down in Florida now and was unwell and not up to traveling. After the closing, Helen and Nate went out to breakfast at a little café on the outskirts of town. It was a celebration—they were now the proud owners of the land!

But Helen felt self-conscious: they were too well dressed, wore inappropriate footwear and dressy coats; they were clearly outsiders. When they came back, they’d need to work harder to blend in, to not seem so out of place. Helen pulled out her notebook from her purse and started a list of the things they’d need: sturdy leather boots, wool sweaters, fleece layers, flannel shirts, long underwear. Then she started a list of the tools they would need, putting an asterisk beside those they had already collected from her dad’s basement: circular saw, keyhole saw, hacksaw, framing hammers, finishing hammers, squares, levels, a chalk line, a plumb bob, and on and on. There was comfort in making lists, in knowing just what to put on them, in checking off items accomplished.

. . .

They had sold their condo and Helen’s father’s house. Both sales were quick and easy, despite dire warnings from well-meaning friends about the crappy real estate market in Connecticut. They’d quit their nice, secure teaching jobs at the Palmer Academy, giving up not only the bimonthly paychecks but also their health insurance and the matching contributions to their 401(k)s. They’d even traded in their little Prius for a Toyota Tacoma pickup truck. They’d sold or given away a lot of their belongings, putting the things they were most attached to into a rented storage unit.

Their colleagues and friends thought they were crazy when they described their plans to build a house, grow a garden, raise chickens and goats.

“Mmm, lovely. Sounds like all nine circles of hell,” Helen’s friend Jenny had said at the going-away party Jenny and her husband, Richard, hosted. Helen had laughed.

“Did you ever think maybe you were born in the wrong century?” Jenny had asked, narrowing her eyes, topping up their glasses of pinot grigio. Helen had nodded. Yes. She thought that often.

Jenny was Helen’s oldest friend—they’d known each other since kindergarten.

“Think of everything you’re giving up,” Jenny had said. “And what for? So you can go freeze your asses off in the middle of freaking nowhere while you act out this 1960s back-to-the-land fantasy? You’ll be isolated. We’ll never hear from you again.”