Thirteen years ago I moved with my partner, Vaughan, and our son, River, from an unaffordable, 900-square-foot apartment in Bozeman, Montana, my home state, to Pittsfield, a Central Maine town about halfway between Waterville and Bangor along Interstate 95. We loaded our belongings into the bed of a Dodge diesel pick-up that ran on scavenged fryer oil and drove across the country to a house that’d been vacant for more than a year, save the mice nesting in the toaster. Inherited from Vaughan’s grandparents, the three-bedroom, two-story Colonial was fully furnished in rural Maine style, down to the worn linens, six rolls of Scotch tape, empty collectible bottles of Jim Beam and Wild Turkey, and dozens of canning jars in the cellar still filled with unidentifiable food. Since we arrived, I’ve given birth to two more sons in the room at the front of the house 20 feet from the spur by which roughly 7,000 cars and trucks pass daily between I-95 and “downtown.” Their placentas are buried beneath a young black walnut tree that will someday shade the road.