Wade McCullough did not have a house. He had a trailer. It was a single-wide, white, with a concrete pad that had cracked in three places and was slowly being taken over by weeds.
It sat on a narrow strip of land between the Arkansas River and Highway 65. The land was maybe an acre. It had been his father's. His father had sold half of it in 1978 to a man who built a gas station. The rest was still Wade's. Wade fished the Arkansas for forty years. He was sixty-three now. He knew every bend, every gravel bar, every submerged log from the city limits to the point where the...
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