Samantha (Corrections Officer)

I passed that old diner, its neon sign dark and dead, and I caught a glimpse of the gas station again. The memory of those outdated candy bars and that coffee cup frozen in time made me grip the steering wheel until my knuckles ached. Eventually, I saw a battered sign reading, Leaving Clarkston.

I passed that old diner, its neon sign dark and dead, and I caught a glimpse of the gas station again. The memory of those outdated candy bars and that coffee cup frozen in time made me grip the steering wheel until my knuckles ached. Eventually, I saw a battered sign reading, Leaving Clarkston.

Someone had spray-painted something over it, maybe a faded message, but I couldn't make sense of the letters in the dim light. I drove on, the road ahead practically pitch black, the headlights illuminating only the cracked asphalt and tumbleweeds. Relief battled with lingering dread, each competing for space in my mind. Finally, I spotted a more modern road sign pointing to Mountain Home.

Someone had spray-painted something over it, maybe a faded message, but I couldn't make sense of the letters in the dim light. I drove on, the road ahead practically pitch black, the headlights illuminating only the cracked asphalt and tumbleweeds. Relief battled with lingering dread, each competing for space in my mind. Finally, I spotted a more modern road sign pointing to Mountain Home.

My heart surged at the idea of a real town with functioning lights, open gas stations, and living, breathing people. By the time I got there, the Subaru was running on fumes. I yanked up to the pump, and pure relief flooded me when I heard the pump start humming. Inside the convenience store, I babbled something about just driving through a ghost town. The clerk stared like I was unhinged.

My heart surged at the idea of a real town with functioning lights, open gas stations, and living, breathing people. By the time I got there, the Subaru was running on fumes. I yanked up to the pump, and pure relief flooded me when I heard the pump start humming. Inside the convenience store, I babbled something about just driving through a ghost town. The clerk stared like I was unhinged.

She asked, what town? And I nearly snapped, Clarkston, back that way. But she only shrugged, never heard of it. Frustrated, I grabbed my phone and tried calling the local sheriff's office to ask if they knew anything. After a few transfers, a deputy told me, "'Yeah, might be an old settlement folks abandoned.' He didn't sound very curious, or even particularly surprised."

She asked, what town? And I nearly snapped, Clarkston, back that way. But she only shrugged, never heard of it. Frustrated, I grabbed my phone and tried calling the local sheriff's office to ask if they knew anything. After a few transfers, a deputy told me, "'Yeah, might be an old settlement folks abandoned.' He didn't sound very curious, or even particularly surprised."

He offered no real details, just mumbled something about farmland drying up and moved on. Once I got on the road again, my mind replayed the images of dust-choked rooms, that child's teddy bear, the unblinking emptiness of Clarkston. Even as I reached Boise, checked into a motel, and finally let myself relax, I couldn't shake the heavy thoughts. Were those people gone by choice or by force?

He offered no real details, just mumbled something about farmland drying up and moved on. Once I got on the road again, my mind replayed the images of dust-choked rooms, that child's teddy bear, the unblinking emptiness of Clarkston. Even as I reached Boise, checked into a motel, and finally let myself relax, I couldn't shake the heavy thoughts. Were those people gone by choice or by force?

Something about the place felt worse than just an economic collapse. It felt like people had left in the middle of ordinary life and never looked back. By the time I reached Seattle, I tried forcing myself not to dwell on it. My friend laughed off my story, suggesting maybe I'd stumbled into some deserted area that never rebounded from a recession.

Something about the place felt worse than just an economic collapse. It felt like people had left in the middle of ordinary life and never looked back. By the time I reached Seattle, I tried forcing myself not to dwell on it. My friend laughed off my story, suggesting maybe I'd stumbled into some deserted area that never rebounded from a recession.

Still, every so often, I'd get a flash of that bedroom with scattered crayons and wonder if something bad happened. If the truth was locked away in a battered file at some sheriff's office I'd never visit. Part of me longed to know the answer, but the rest of me knew it'd be better if I never set foot in Clarkston again.

Still, every so often, I'd get a flash of that bedroom with scattered crayons and wonder if something bad happened. If the truth was locked away in a battered file at some sheriff's office I'd never visit. Part of me longed to know the answer, but the rest of me knew it'd be better if I never set foot in Clarkston again.

I was 13 when my mom decided I was old enough to handle the worst corners of our rundown neighborhood all by myself. I lived with her and my little sister in a cramped duplex on the very edge of Riverton. The paint on our place had peeled away to reveal sun-faded boards, and the porch light flickered like it struggled to stay alive. Our street felt drained, too.

I was 13 when my mom decided I was old enough to handle the worst corners of our rundown neighborhood all by myself. I lived with her and my little sister in a cramped duplex on the very edge of Riverton. The paint on our place had peeled away to reveal sun-faded boards, and the porch light flickered like it struggled to stay alive. Our street felt drained, too.

A few folks still lived around us, but they rarely stepped outside. My mother didn't seem concerned about any of that. She had her own orbit of interest that never seemed to involve me or my sister. Whether it was borrowing groceries or delivering some package, she always found a way to send me out after dark. As if the time of day made no difference.

A few folks still lived around us, but they rarely stepped outside. My mother didn't seem concerned about any of that. She had her own orbit of interest that never seemed to involve me or my sister. Whether it was borrowing groceries or delivering some package, she always found a way to send me out after dark. As if the time of day made no difference.

If anything, she looked downright smug whenever she forced me to go. One chilly November night, she barged into the living room and announced I needed to haul a huge laundry bag over to my uncle's place so he could wash our clothes.

If anything, she looked downright smug whenever she forced me to go. One chilly November night, she barged into the living room and announced I needed to haul a huge laundry bag over to my uncle's place so he could wash our clothes.