Cover

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Title Page, Copyright

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The parish elders approached him....

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pp. 1-7

The parish elders approached him on a Friday in early December, just as he knew they eventually would. Malcolm Walker had woken early that day, climbed from bed, and left the parsonage, spreading salt like birdseed, the sun barely over the treetops and the roads sheeted in ice. ...

Part One

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I.

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pp. 9-50

He woke miles from the sun, at sea, again, and chasing a dawn that cut along the horizon like light beneath a door. Woke early because this was the time one might be alone with the dark, for—he realized this as he rose from the musty recliner and walked toward the front windows that opened over the porch ...

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II.

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pp. 51-90

At some point you had to get out. You had to get out, she thought, or it killed you. But that wasn’t true. That was what Roosevelt would have referred to as one of her theatrical responses, her failure to exist beyond the performative, the reenactment of old wrongs, the slings and arrows and all-around bad shit laid on her by her nana. ...

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III.

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pp. 91-134

What was left of the snow melted in the shallow pools that surrounded the El Shaddai Temple of the Holy Ghost. Malcolm was late—the sound of singing came through the cinder block walls—but that was a good thing; he didn’t want to speak to anyone. To be here was enough. They would see him. They would know. ...

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IV.

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pp. 135-159

Dallas took a drink of Johnnie Walker from his Nalgene bottle and watched the land slide by, the massive billboards staked in pastures, cloud shadows that lumbered across yellowed grass. The meeting was in the Sunshine Diner in the parking lot of the old K-Mart building in Anderson and the goddamn cows had him nervous, ...

Part Two

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V.

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pp. 161-198

After the rains the summer grew shaggy with heat and in the evenings Malcolm sat alone on the porch while Jordan meditated upstairs. Three weeks had passed since she moved her scant belongings into the Winter House, and they settled into a life, an easy routine of working in the yard and eating dinner on the back porch. ...

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VI.

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pp. 199-244

She knew several churches were running buses from the Shaver Center to the Chellis rally in Greenville, and she climbed onto one and collapsed into a seat, the Ativan just beginning to reach through her like long fingers, delicate and cold. A man and woman—white man, white woman—leaned into the aisle to talk to her and she said something back, ...

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VII.

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pp. 245-270

The room smelled of Lysol and Malcolm raised windows and washed the bedsheets. The old man was down to the Ativan and a single can of Glucerna split between two feedings, that and a few squirts of Pedialyte taken from a sports bottle. He had diminished for weeks but now seemed arrested on the edge of dying, occupying some point just short of erasure. ...

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VIII.

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pp. 271-305

Early on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend, Dallas pulled into the yard, his pontoon hitched to the truck and loaded with fishing tackle. In the bed of the Dodge was a forty-liter Igloo secured with two bungee cords. He had iced two cases of Coors and a carton of Ripped Fuel, and packed a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue in the truck box. ...

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Acknowledgments

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p. 306

Heartfelt thanks to: Gene Adair, Amy Blackmarr, Alex Boldizar, Rand Brandes and the visiting writer program at Lenoir-Rhyne College, Craig Brandhorst, George Brosi and everyone at Appalachian Heritage, Casey Clabough, Beverly Coyle, Johnny Damm, Spencer Deck, Chris Doucot, Pete Duval, the Reverend Dr. Art Farlowe, ...