The swamp does not give up its dead. It keeps them—suspended in black water, wrapped in cypress knees and Spanish moss, preserved by the tannin and the cold and the slow, patient work of decay.
Silas Durand knew this. His grandfather was in the swamp. His father was in the swamp. He would be in the swamp. This was not philosophy; it was geometry. The swamp was a circle, and every Durand man had stood on its edge and stepped inside. He stood now on the edge, in the mud, in the rain, watching the water move. Not wind—something under it. Something large. The scar on his face pulsed. Not...
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