What the Mud Remembers
Ray McAllister sat on the rotting wooden porch and watched the wind move through the dead cornfields.It was 2008, and the wind in Iowa smelled different than the wind anywhere else. It smelled of dry earth and dead corn and something deeper and older—the smell of a land that had been worked too hard and left too long and was now slowly, silently, giving up. The sky was gray. It had been gray...
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