A Storyby Cristina Perachio
The village of Seneca Lake, Ohio, has a population of 453. About one weekend a month that number increases by two. You drive the hunter-green Impala with a leopard-print quilt over your lap and earmuffs because there’s no heat. Your breath fogs the windshield, and you use McDonald’s napkins stained with fry grease and lipstick to wipe little peepholes.
The trip is long, straight highways where everything is the color of pale corn: sepia. Your fingers are white and numb and you use your teeth to flip open your phone when it buzzes. He sends you pictures along the way of snow-covered barns, a hawk, a sign that reads Charlotte Hospice & Thrift Store with the caption “Do you see the morbid connection?” The six-hour drive puts you midway between his farm and your city.