The swamp does not give up its dead easily. It keeps them the way a miser keeps gold—close to the chest, in the dark, where no one can take them away.
Elias Thibodeaux knew this. He had grown up on the edges of the Atchafalaya Basin, where the cypress knees rose from the black water like the knuckles of something ancient and patient. But he had been away for twenty years—twenty years in Europe, twenty years in field hospitals and mortuaries and places where death was a numbers game rather than a neighborhood. He came back because there was...
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