On my way to Arcola, IL, I had seen a speck on the map called Chicken Bristle, and I set out to find it. I thought it would be fun to take a picture of the city limit sign. I think I found the town, although I never saw any sign. A cluster of houses sat where the speck had been on the map, an island in an ocean of cornstalks. The roads near Chicken Bristle were paved and one-lane, set in a grid. The cornfields flanking each path created almost a tunnel effect. I wondered what would happen if a car came from the opposite direction, but I never found out. Sometimes, when I dream, I’m walking down that same blacktop, protected by armies of corn. My footsteps make no sound. The corn is always green, and it is always summer.