A tangerine sun rises over the fields, backlighting a trail of smoke smeared across the sky. It billows from the chimney of a tiny ivy-laden farmhouse, which is surrounded on all sides by rows of corn and raspberries in square plots.

This is the home of Janna Redding, of the Wynern County Redding’s. She’s a red-cheeked girl with two wispy pigtails and a mouth full of dentistry-free teeth. She shoves her hands in the pockets of her overalls as she surveys the land from her front porch. In these lean economic times, it’s crucial that this year’s crop yield a profit. Otherwise, Janna would have to eat her beloved pet horse, Macken–

“Janna, can you call that sub place and see if they do party platters?”

Janna closes the Firefox window and smiles at her boss. He’s holding out a thrice-folded menu and chewing on a flavored toothpick.

“Yes, of course.”

“Their menu says they do,” her boss says, “but it doesn’t say how much they are or anything. Okay, cool. Thanks. ”

Janna takes the menu and sets it aside. This is her fourteenth day working for The Drayword Company, a small investment firm in New York City.

When she moved here six months ago with big dreams of becoming a professional journalist, there was no way she could predict that she’d spend seven hours a day behind her desk, answering the phone every twenty minutes or so, and living the life she used to live back home…

….on a farm that exists only on Facebook.

“That’s okay, I packed a salad today,” her co-worker says when Janna asks if she wants to order from the sub place, since she’s calling anyway.

“Plus, that place takes their lettuce out of a dumpster. I only eat organic these days.”

Janna smiles. She used to eat only organic, back in Wynern County. She takes the long route back to the front desk, catching glimpses of what her co-workers are doing on their computers. Farmville, Mafia, Graffiti, Farmville, Farmville…

It seems like the whole office is spending a lot of their time pretending to be someone else. The scenarios are unimportant. What matter is that they’re all pretending to be someone they’re not, exchanging land for loot and loot for prizes and deeds for friends and friends for money.

Janna wonders if the person she’s pretending to be is the one in this office or the freckle-faced avatar on the computer.

She sits at her desk and glances over the menu. New York deli prices. She picks up the phone and dials. As it rings, she thinks, again, of the world she left behind.

Riiiiiiiing.

What if she’d stayed in Wynern County? Right now she’d be sitting in her grandmother’s bead shop, sorting through the silver collection while her perpetually-engaged to be married friend Jeanine looks on. The wind would be blowing through the valley and the chimes out front would sing out their familiar tune.  There would be a sense of simplicity and peace with one’s status.

Riiiiiiiiiing.

What would she be doing tonight? Instead of sitting on the E train for an hour and a half, pretending to read a book about the origins of Abraham, she’d drive her truck down Highway 23 just as the sun nestles itself in that dip in the western mountains. The radio would be playing her favorite songs, interrupted by the disc jockey whose voice is so soothing she doesn’t even mind.

Riiiiiiiiiiing.

Perhaps, before going to bed, she’d get on her computer and pull up Facebook and play a game called OfficeVille, where she would play a character much like herself. Dressed in uncomfortable attire, bored, lonely, fearful of failure, constantly second-guessing herself.

“Subs Ahoy. This is Javier speaking. How can I help you today?”

“Yes, I’d like to inquire about whether you still serve party platters.”

“We do.”

“Perfect,” she says and hangs up the phone. “That’s all I needed to know.” She moves her mouse to wake her laptop, and for a brief moment she has a vision of fireflies. It’s gone in a flash. She’s confronted with a Firefox window. It’s her farm. It’s Farmville. It’s the closest thing to home she’s got.