The flight attendant on my Atlanta flight secretly gave me a seatbelt extender. She carried it under a metal tray she was balancing, which held small plastic glasses half-filled with water. She smiled as she handed it to me, and I appreciated the first-class sensitivity. If I were in coach, she would have gone over the loudspeaker:

"Becky, seat extender needed in 22C, please." And pressed my call light so Becky could find me quickly.

What I really wanted was an extra spicy Bloody Mary. A double. Just like they do it at home in Wisconsin: a couple of olives, hot pepper, a chunk of cheese, and a beef stick stacked on a stirrer with a Spotted Cow chaser. I wanted the jolt of vodka to warm my stomach and chill me out a little. But they told us we couldn't have any alcohol for two weeks leading up to our visit, and I guess I'm now a rule follower.

Headphones on, I flipped through my playlist until I found the Stones song I was looking for and turned it up. I didn't need anyone asking me where I was going and then wondering what I was doing going by myself. The first thing that came to mind was that I was headed to Costa Rica to meet up with some friends for a bachelor party. That would do, probably, unless they turned up at the same place as me: a health and wellness resort to take mind-bending psychedelics in search of a breakthrough to resolve childhood trauma and real-time rage.

"I can't get no. I can't get no. I can't get no satisfaction. No satisfaction. No satisfaction."

The cabin shook as the luggage door slammed shut and the crew prepared for pushback from Atlanta's cluster of an airport. The layover was short and sweet, and now here we go.

The flight attendant brought me another Diet Coke after we took off, and I turned the Stones down but kept my headphones on. The woman next to me was snoring quietly with her chin resting on her chest.

I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and exhaled a big sigh out of my mouth. A lot is riding on this trip. I'll do whatever it takes.

Four months earlier, I began getting a lot of phone calls from unknown numbers. This was more than usual, so I took notice. No one ever left a message. One evening, I was driving home from work on the beltline in Madison, Wisconsin. It was late, and the sun cast a golden hue over the green landscape. The traffic was starting to build, with cars slowly filling the lanes and headlights blinking in the early evening light.

My cell phone buzzed on the center console, and although it was another number I didn't recognize, I picked it up anyway.

"Hello, Mr. Fulford?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"This is Pat Rice. I'm an attorney in California, and I know your farm was sold recently. I'm calling about the mineral rights to that land, sir."

"That was my father's land. I don't know anything about it. He died back in 2017."

"So how can I…"

"I'm sorry, I don't know anything." I hung up the phone.

I pulled into our driveway, hit the garage button, and came into our house through the laundry room. Amy was on a Zoom call at the kitchen table, so I gave her a wave and went to my home office. I swung my chair around to face my laptop and pulled up Google. I found an auction site for the land listed in Indiana belonging to three generations—my great-grandfather, grandfather, and my dad.

I read the summary on the auction page for this land. My hands shook and I gripped the sides of my laptop. Even though I had my reading glasses on, I leaned in closer like I couldn't trust them to give me the information I needed. I couldn't believe what I saw.

I guess I'm a hard-working Christian with Midwest values and an East Coast backbone. I believe a probiotic shake is something you should get checked out at the doctor, and I'd rather get three teeth pulled than attend a yoga class. So why am I spending my money to get on a plane and go to the jungles of Costa Rica to hang out with some granola-loving crunchers and shamans? Because I've spent my whole life trying to escape both the memories of the childhood I had and the betrayal that I felt as an adult. I had buried it deep until seeing this website set it all loose, brought it all back front and center. Red-hot rage burned its way through my body to the top of my head and stabbed a victory flag.

It was the final tipping point.

This was what got me on a plane to Costa Rica four months later. Getting help wasn't optional—my life depended on it.