In the middle of this nation, you’ll find mystery. Township after township, each with a church and a tavern. Have a drink if you dare. Whiskey straight, no ice. Nice to see you. Nicer still to see you passing through these parts, wandering their hopelessly flat terrain. All the wrong turns past fields of sun-scorched soybeans are nothing but miles of rutted pavement laid over more rutted pavement. Roads proudly leading to unknown destinations. A flood of unhappy souls reeking of ditchwater and abandoned aspirations. Recently, a drifter shot himself dead in his pickup, his ghost now haunting the countryside with remorse. Your tug on the whiskey makes a sucking sound that echoes through the room, catches the attention of a brunette at the end of the bar. Buy her a drink. Stay for a while, your hands already shaking with desire.