Ashes of the Hollow State
The Jeep stopped at the iron gate because the gate had rusted through, and Caleb Thibodeaux had to push it himself, his hands on cold iron that flaked like dried blood under his palms. Beyond the gate, the Thibodeaux plantation stretched out before him—a hundred acres of overgrown cotton fields and trees that had grown too wide and too twisted in the Mississippi heat, their branches hanging low...
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