A truck out on the street honks its horn and Vonnegut looks toward the restaurant’s entrance. His eyes seem to water a little and his voice lowers almost to a whisper. “”Where is home? I’ve wondered where home is, and I realized, it’s not Mars or someplace like that, it’s Indianapolis when I was nine years old. I had a brother and a sister, a cat and a dog, and a mother and a father and uncles and aunts. And there’s no way I can get there again.””
