The drive from the Portland airport felt endless. Three hours of winding roads, farmland giving way to empty stretches of plain, and then finally mountains on the horizon. By the time we rolled into Cedar Falls, Wyoming, I was already feeling like we’d landed on another planet. The welcome sign said Population: 4,847. The town itself looked exactly like the kind of place movies pick when they want “small-town America”, one main street, mom-and-pop shops, flags hanging from lampposts, people walking slow like they had nowhere better to be. And the sky, wide and sharp and so open it almost made me dizzy. Free and exposed at the same time.
When the car stopped in front of a modest two-story with a wraparound porch, David leaned against the window and let out a low whistle.
“Well,” he said,
