The Lighthouse in the Bayou
The swamp didn't have a name. Not one that appeared on any map Julian Beauregard had ever seen. It was just a patch of cypress and water and Spanish moss three miles east of Breaux Bridge, the kind of place that existed in Louisiana the way fog existed in London—ubiquitous, unremarkable, and absolutely essential to understanding the place that contained it. Julian had driven out there on a...
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