It's cold this time of year.

The heavy clouds and moisture are held in a tight grasp by the Appalachian mountains surrounding me.

Even still, I drive with the heat on low and the window cracked.

Taking a deep pull from my vape pen momentarily fills the chill air with the flavor of skittles.

The taste lingers on my tongue before I exhale slowly.

As the vapor fades, all that's left is the smell of cold air and decaying leaves. It smells

like home. Or, close enough to home anyway. West Virginia is only a stone's throw away from the part of Kentucky, my family originally called home.

I'm getting a different angle of the Appalachians than when I visited Mamma and Papa as a kid,

but their towering presence is still a source of comfort.

The houses around me don't fit in with

the familiar scenery. I don't associate the Appalachians with gated communities or McMansions.

Most of our neighbors were like us, hardworking but not rich. Not that there's much overlap

between the two in my experience. But I guess you can find old money in any part of the world.

It's just a matter of looking in the right places.

The guard at the gate takes his job seriously.

Only a few families can afford to set up shop behind Golden Dew's entrance.

And the rich always like their privacy.

The sheriff is one of the few who can resist the resident's orders,

and I know his orders are not to let anyone in until he's through.

Still, I give the guard one of my cards and smile politely when he goes through his whole spiel,

trying to get me to leave.

Addiction has me reaching for my vape, but my manners keep me from taking a long drag and exhaling it

...