I was up all night before I left. Everyone had been asleep for a few hours, and the air had taken on that unnaturally still quality that comes with being the only person up at three in the morning. My room, usually so messy, was clean, if only for the fact that most of my belongings were packed away. Two heavy suitcases stood at the foot of my bed. I padded downstairs to grab a Coke from the fridge, careful not to be too loud. The light over the stove was on, and I could see the kitchen, the way papers and books were piled up on the table. I couldn’t see the living room, but Chester’s heavy bulldog snores drifted up towards me and reassured me of his presence on the couch, curled up and dozing before the switched-off TV. When it was time to leave, I dragged my suitcases downstairs, pushed them into the trunk of the car. It was still dark outside; the sun wouldn’t rise for a few hours. The house sat behind me, its red bricks heavy and solid. No one was outside yet, not even the earliest risers, and no wind ruffled the American flag hanging near the front door. No light peeked out from the curtains of the front room. I shivered and got into the car, and soon the house melted into the relative darkness behind me.