The Dust Beneath the Magnolia
The heat in Mississippi does not announce itself. It does not knock on your door or send you a telegram telling you that it has arrived. It simply appears, the way darkness appears when you close your eyes — all at once, completely, and with no warning at all. By mid-June, the Beauregard plantation was already baking, the red clay cracking in places where the rain hadn't fallen for three weeks,...
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