We were a family before that Autumn arrived, and I possessed an innocence I find myself briefly memorializing. Turning right off the curving highway of the farming community I once called home places me on Hickory Street and the breeze through the window, smelling of Nebraska dirt, welcomes me back. I was 11 that year.

“Too hot to work, Chris,” I declare, getting comfortable on the grassy fringe of my pebbly street.

The afternoon sun, halting the progress of a finished tree house, creates sparkling stones that slide through my fingers and into the pockets of my shorts. Too many treasures to leave behind or live without, as dirt patterns on my hands become spiraling rivers and the first letter of a loved one’s name.

Then an incline, along the north side of Hickory, runs next to my house. Children find respite from the feverish tunnel-building on the hill of…