There is almost never an investigation when a fly on the wall disappears. He’s assumed to be out who knows where or just gone away who cares where. No one stops for the guy on the berm with his back to the road; it’s probably a wet dog or something else half domesticated. A year of moving tired with open eyes ends where the rust belt meets Appalachia—where everybody’s forgotten and no one is looking. This dead heart of industry is tucked in a series of lobbed-off mountains, blanketed by overgrown invasive species and reduced to orange currents flowing out along the creek beds. Shrouded in off-air static, this is a place to disappear, fall out, stay inside and grow blurry in a scarred and confusing landscape.