The Wolves of Beauregard Bayou
The heat in Mississippi does not announce itself. It simply arrives, thick and wet and absolute, like a blanket that has been sitting in a dryer too long and cannot decide whether it wants to be warm or burning. Eulalie Beauregard sat on her porch and watched the heat rise off the dirt road that led to her property and disappeared into the cypress swamp beyond. At sixty-two, she had learned to...
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