I wasn't able to fall asleep that night, a problem I almost never experienced. I rolled over and over until Rita turned a tired eye to me and told me to get up if I was going to keep her awake, too. So I slipped from the bed and sat on the back porch, listening to the chirping crickets.

I wondered why on earth Jack wanted to come back here. I thought back to the day George drowned. The day that the reservoir Jack built wrapped itself around his son, forcing water into George's lungs until it smothered him, and spitting the shell of him onto the ground. I believed we'd never see Jack again after watching him attack that reservoir with a huge stone. I didn't think he'd ever be comfortable living out here in the open space, with the memory of his son, and our brother George, who also drowned, and of our sister Katie, who died after running home to tell us about discovering George's body. I thought these memories would keep Jack away.

But here he was, and I wondered again, as I had so many times, what mysterious hold this land has on its people. How can it be that a place that pummels people so thoroughly, that asks them to sacrifice everything, can still manage to take you in its arms and comfort you into thinking it's going to take care of you? What is it about this flat, expressionless expanse of dirt that tells us these lies?

I sucked the fresh, sweet, clean air into my lungs that night and thought again how much Jack and I were alike in this one respect.

But why was he here?

-from pages 127-128