You are a proud American. A family man. You have a wife and two grown children with kids of their own. You’re not as young as you used to be. The farm has been in your family for three generations. Now that it’s gone, you’re leaving the only home you’ve ever known.

Your father voted for Jimmy Carter in 1976. The first and last time he voted Democrat. You remember how agitated grandaddy got whenever he talked about Democrats. How they sold out farmers when they spurned Henry Wallace as FDR’s 1944 running mate. You cast your first vote for president in 1980. To this day you are a Reagan Republican.

You’re not a praying man. But you believe in god. A white Christian god. At Sunday service, your pastor condemns abortion. “It is a sin against the laws of God and Man,” he proclaims. It’s like he’s talking to you—and you alone. You try not to think about it.

Back in high school, you and Shelia took long rides out on Highway 40. Fields teeming with the incandescent wonder of a hundred thousand fireflies seducing themselves on warm summer nights. Shelia left town early for her first semester at college. You never saw her again.

These days you get your kicks rolling coal across four counties. Sometimes you’re driving that truck till all hours. Late night talk radio provides the soundtrack. Gives you something (else) to think about.

You enjoy watching Friday Night Lights with the grandchildren. Television sure has changed since you were a kid, but it’s something you can do with the family without breaking the bank. You cash a check at the Spinning Wheel, and after a couple of beers, you pick up frozen pizza at the corner Fast Stop. By the time you get home, you’re a fucking hero.

After the election was stolen, you outfitted the truck with MAGA flags and “Don’t Tread on Me” license plates. One moonlit night, just before Christmas, you’re rolling coal and tuned to Info Wars. “Where were you when history called? Where were you when you and your children’s destiny and future was on the line?” Alex Jones wants to know. That’s when you decide to drive to DC for the rally.

You take a plea deal. Otherwise, your lawyer says, you’re looking at prison time. You sold the truck, but legal fees wiped out what little savings you had. Now you’re a 2nd shift custodian at Prairie Central High and working part-time at Walmart.

You ignored not one but two impeachment trials. This summer you watch the hearings on the Capitol insurrection with an odd detachment—numb to all that’s happened to you and your family; repulsed by the deceit, treachery, and betrayal that conjured the maelstrom. The whirlwind that drove you from your home, put you in debt, landed you in jail.

One day soon, with the help of your god, you come to realize that you’ve been had.

Kevin Howley is a writer and educator based in Bloomington, IN.