We drive past the WELCOME TO FRANKLIN sign at half past six.

Andy rolls down the window and I breathe in the fresh air. It feels different from what I am used to. Here, as the breeze breathes through the long strands of Andy's hair, it's not the smell of exhaust fumes (typical of Boston's traffic) that greet me—if anything, it's the sweet fragrance of roses and pine, mixed with the ambrosial scent of the damp soil from beneath the tyres.

Well, so far, so good, I try to convince myself, but here's the catch: the layout of this town is every architect's nightmare.

Franklin, a nineteenth century settlement invisible to the eyes of the ignorant on the maps of New England without Google Earth, resembles what one would expect a village to become when the locals play architect with little to no city planning, rocking the whole 'a town lost in time' vibes just right. I don't know about Andy, but this tiny observation is more than enough to unnerve me and put me off my game.

Alright, I think now might be a good time to put this on the table: I am not a fan of small towns, having spent summer after summer roaming the streets of one as warm sunny days faded into sultry nights.

To me, they have always been the embodiment of a rich tapestry sewn in a manner so intricate that each interwoven thread plays a crucial role in keeping the others in place, lest they unravel. The streets are the fabric, illustrated with similar looking matchbox sized houses, and the people are the thread. Everyone knows everyone. Familiarity runs in deep; so much so, it's suffocating.

But the one nice thing about growing up in a small town is that if you are one for the stories, you almost, almost feel bad about fleeing it—for real or not, these places are crammed with them stories. All it takes is the patience to lend an ear and offer whatever semblance of an advice you can from time to time for people to launch into a recital of their misery and misfortunes.

Because the thing is, be it the city or town, people love to talk about themselves once you get them to trust you. I was counting on that when I chose to make a career out of journalism. Richard was counting on that when he sent Andy and me to Franklin to dig up a story on the four—now five—people reported missing during their visit to this little funny town over the last couple of years.

According to Richard, the happenings at Franklin have previously been in print but due to lack of circumstantial evidence slash an observable pattern in modus operandi, they were written off as 'unfortunate confidences'. Case closed.

Now with another person gone missing, the case is very much open for us to stick our noses where it doesn't belong, courtesy Richard, who is hell bent on getting this story covered before any of the rival papers do.

That brings us here, pretty much in the middle of nowhere.

Andy yanks the airpod from my left ear.

"What. . .?" I ask, annoyed.

She shrugs. "I asked you to stop making that face. You weren't listening."

"What face?"

"Your I-Am-Better-Than-This face. I am trying to take in all that I can but it's putting me off. Do you want me to punch you?"

"I am not even doing anything!"

And I didn't need to. Andy and I share a dynamic which has been imbalanced from the get-go. We started off the wrong foot, and two years and several side by side assignment later, things haven't progressed much. To her credit though, she's one of the best photojournalists out there. And she's smart smart. To my dismay, she's also mean mean.

"You are breathing, Stevie. That's a very legitimate reason for me to kill you." Andy gives me a sinister smile, killing the engine.

See? This is what I was talking about.

"Now off you hop like a nice grasshopper. We're here."