The last baby born in my friend Ikeda's hometown was born in 2014. It's a mountain town in Japan. The school closed. The summer festival stopped. The bus stopped coming. His mother is 84, and she is one of the young ones. Japan has thousands of towns like that now. There's a Japanese word for the place your heart comes from. Furusato. Ours are disappearing. This fall, Ikeda's company sent him to Nebraska for three months. He asked to live in the smallest town they had. Population: 640. Americans call it flyover country. He sent me a message every Sunday. "There are babies. Everywhere. In the café. In church. Asleep on their dad's shoulder at the hardware store. I counted eleven at one service. My hometown has had zero in twelve years." "The high school has 112 kids. On Friday night, the whole town went to the football game. So did the next town. They came to watch their rivals lose. Afterward, both towns went to the only pizza place for forty miles. Same booths. Different shirts." "The fire chief is also the pharmacist and the Little League coach. I asked him when he sleeps. He said, 'Winter.'" "Homecoming parade. One fire truck. Two tractors. A horse. A marching band of nineteen. Every kid in town throwing candy at every adult in town. It took four minutes. Everyone cheered like it took four hours." "A farmer at the café told me the population sign was wrong. 'It's 641 now. The Hansens had a girl Tuesday.' The whole café clapped. For a number." "A young man came back from Omaha this summer to take over his grandfather's farm. He's 26. The town threw him a supper in the Lutheran church hall. In Japan, nobody comes back. Here, they throw you a supper when you do." On his last Sunday, Ikeda told the Sunday school class about his hometown. The town with no children. The kids didn't understand. One of them asked who the playground was for. The next week, nine envelopes arrived at his mother's house in Japan. Crayon. Stickers. One had a dollar in it "for candy." They were addressed: "To the new baby (whenever you come)." His mother took them to the town office. They're in a drawer there now. Waiting. America, you call it flyover country. Half the world is losing exactly what you have down there. You're flying over your own furusato. (Ikeda's company asked him for a final report. Page one has one sentence: "Recommend we land.")