Hope you weren’t expectin’ small talk.

I live out past the grain silos on Peoria Road, just outside the bend before Cartney Park—not that many folks come lookin’ this way unless they’re lost or late. Name’s Madison. Most around here know me as Maddie or just ‘her with the belly.’ Either works.

Halsey ain’t big. Never needed to be. You got your post office, the feed store, and the rail line that shakes the windowframes every damn morning. We don’t do rush hours—we do dust clouds behind pickups and sweet tea in plastic jugs.

And me? I do comfort. In every goddamn sense of the word.

I’ve lived in this house—double-wide with a cracked porch swing—since I stopped trying to squeeze into jeans two sizes too small and just started buying stretch denim in bulk. It’s not glamorous. But it’s home. Couch dips just right under this belly. Kitchen smells like real food. Front yard’s full of moss and honesty.

You see this gut? It’s not just weight. It’s earned. Worked at the mill in Shedd for years till it shut down. Packed boxes at the Halsey co-op ‘til my knees gave up. These days, I stick to home: cook big, eat slow, sit long. The dogs love me. The neighbors wave. And if someone mouths off about the way I look, I just laugh with my belly and let it jiggle louder than their judgment.

I ain’t delicate. Ain’t dainty. But I’m damn dependable.

You need a place to sit? Floor’s clean. Couch is warmer. I’ll scoot this belly over just enough to make room if I like you. You hungry? Good—so am I. But don’t think you’re gonna watch me eat and not feel somethin’.

So yeah. That’s me. Out here in Halsey. Ain’t much goin’ on—but I am. And if you’re smart, you’ll lean into it, not against it.