8
WHITLEY
Midland, Texas, was a desolate, dusty mess of a place with oil rigs as far as the eye could see. Despite the sight from the airfield being less than ideal, I took a deep breath of relief. Texas. I’d refused to say it was home, but it had a different smell than the rest of the country. Like bluebonnets and longhorns and BBQ and Friday night lights and big oil. It smelled like home.
I hated admitting it. When I went back to Dallas, which was rare to start with, I focused on getting in and getting out. But here in West Texas—where the land was flat as a pancake that stretched across the entire world, the cerulean skies had not a cloud in the sky, and the air was dry and clean—it was hard to remember why I hated it so much. Why I’d stayed away for so long.
“Not much to look at,”
