The green light appeared over the orchard on a humid Tuesday in June, and Silas Duval was twelve years old and too young to understand that some things you see once will haunt you for the rest of your life.
He was standing on the porch of the plantation house, watching his parents walk through the apple orchard that had belonged to his family for three generations. The light had come from the swamp, moving through the cypress trees like a living thing—spherical, luminous, impossibly green—and it was heading directly toward his parents, who were standing among the apple trees inspecting the...
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