The alligator was forty feet long if it was an inch, and it lay in the snare like a fallen bridge, its tail thumping against the mud with a sound like a fist on a door.
I was twenty-two, running whiskey between the bayous and the French Quarter, and I didn't have the patience for monsters. But the old woman on the levee had a knife in her apron and eyes that said she would use it, so I cut the rope and let the thing slide back into the water. "Your name is on it, boy," she said. "I don't care." "You should." I didn't. Forty years later, I still don't. My name...
0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior