The heat in Louisiana does not simply sit on you—it presses. It is a physical weight, a wet wool blanket soaked in swamp water and draped over your shoulders, and the longer you wear it, the more you forget what it feels like to be dry.
Caleb Thibodeaux arrived at Camp Beauregard on a Tuesday in July, and the first thing he noticed was the sound. Cicadas. Millions of them, their voices rising and falling in a rhythm that sounded almost like language, as if the insects were trying to tell him something he was not meant to understand. The second thing he noticed was the smell. Stagnant water. Rotting vegetation. Something...
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