The train from Jackson arrived at Holloway Station at four in the afternoon, and Quentin Holloway stepped onto the platform with a suitcase that contained everything he owned in the world that wasn't the land he was returning to.
The station was a single wooden building with a porch that had collapsed on the south side, and a sign that read HOLLOWAY in letters that had once been painted gold and were now the color of dried blood. Beyond the station, the road stretched through cotton fields that had gone to weed and a line of cypress trees that marked the boundary of the Holloway property. Quentin was thirty-two years...
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