My best friend has recently moved back to Tawa, where both he and I grew up together.
I returned to Tawa 18 months ago and he’s experiencing those strange re-entry encounters that come from returning to this Pleasantville-like suburb, nestled between a women’s prison at its southern border and a mental hospital at its northern border, with seven churches down its Main Road.
You find that people don’t actually leave Tawa (or, if they try to, they return.) So you meet people, like your former German teacher, in the bookstore; or find that your former colleagues in the supermarket or petrol station where you worked as a school student are still working there.
