The Wolf of Blackwater Bayou
The bayou does not forget. It holds memory in its dark water like a miser holds gold—tight, close, and with the willingness to drown anyone who reaches for it. Old Man Baptiste knew this better than most. At sixty-five, he had buried a wife and a son in the same yellow fever summer of 1872, and since then he had lived in a small cabin at the edge of Blackwater Bayou, far from the roads and the...
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