Though I am always greeted like an old friend, the relationship with my nail technician is professional and transactional.

Have you ever tried red baked apples with custard cream inside? You can eat them cold, and they are delicious. My mom used to make them when I was a little kid.

A single mother, I live on the edge of Hardwick Village, Vermont (pop. 1,300) in a house built a century ago for psilosis-plagued granite workers.

I’m writing this on my phone from some broke-off ridgeline, eating those depression crackers in the Chili Mac MRE. The land is scorched earth—