Isaac Roe had grown up there and made it to thirty-eight without ever truly leaving. He had tried. One attempt for St. Louis at twenty-two, which lasted six months until the money ran out and so did his tolerance for three roommates who smelled of sweat and failure. Another for Nashville at twenty-nine, with a woman who had told him, “You can’t rot in a place like this if you still have something inside you,” and then left him for a drummer who wore rings and said the word vibe constantly without irony. In the end he always came back. Not because he wanted to. Because some towns cling to you like dirt that does not wash off in one bath.