The Fox's Burden
The flies came first. Always the flies. They arrived with the heat, which arrived with the morning, which arrived without asking permission, beating down on the de Faulkner plantation like a hammer on an anvil. The big house groaned under the weight of it. The porch sagged. The paint peeled in long brown strips that curled like dead leaves. I had watched the heat come every summer since I was a...
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