Hillbilly Bob stood at the edge of the foothills, hunting for a home that outsiders had stolen. Strangers had driven his kin off the family land years back. Now Bob meant to take it back. But the hills rolled on for miles, all looking alike, and Bob had no idea where his homestead sat among them. Bob was tall and lanky, with a smooth, boyish face and long arms that hung past his belt. He pulled his grandpa's compass from his shirt pocket. The brass body felt warm in his hand. His grandpa had carried it all his life. Bob traced the worn face with his thumb. "Show me the way home," Bob said. The needle swung and settled. But it did not point true north. It pointed off to the left, toward a ridge Bob had already walked past twice. Bob frowned. He tapped the glass. The needle held steady, aimed at the ridge like it knew something Bob didn't. Bob remembered his grandpa's words. The old man swore the compass ran a little crooked. He said it always pulled toward the home place, not the pole. Bob had thought it was a joke back then. Now he had nothing else to trust. He followed the needle. It led him up the ridge and down through a gully thick with brush. Twice Bob nearly turned back. The needle never wavered. It kept dragging him deeper into hills he'd never seen. His legs ached and thorns tore his sleeves, but Bob kept his eyes on the swinging point. At the top of one last rise, Bob stopped cold. Below him sat an old log cabin. Timeworn timber walls leaned under a steep pitched roof. A mountain rose behind it, gray against the sky. A crooked bench sat out front where someone once rested. Bob knew that bench. He knew the shape of that door. This was it. The family homestead. Bob ran down the slope, laughing, the compass swinging on its chain. He reached the porch and pressed his hand to the rough wood of the door. Home. After all these years, he had found it. Then Bob saw the smoke. A thin gray line curled from the cabin's chimney. Someone had lit a fire inside. Bob went still. The outsiders who took his land had not just driven his kin off and left. They were living here now, in his family's cabin, warming themselves at his family's hearth. Bob slid the compass back into his pocket. He had found his home. But strangers were sleeping in his beds. Getting here had been the easy part.