The railroad tracks ended at a place the maps had forgotten. They ran out of steel and sleepers and purpose, dissolving into the red clay of the Mississippi Delta like a sentence that lost its grammar.
Langston Bell walked them anyway. He had been walking for seventeen days, since the night he fled the plantation where he had worked since birth and been accused of a crime he did not commit. The accusation was a lie, but in the Delta, truth was a luxury that white men could not afford. Clyde Hudson found him at the end of the tracks. Clyde was a white man, which made their companionship...
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