I found Jolene’s lipstick in my brother’s truck. To apologize, she volunteered to tie the cinderblocks around his lifeless feet.

“It’s finished.”
“Don’t—” I begged.


My fall was no accident. Jolene’s cousin loves prescribed candy.

“It’s love,” I promised.
She started scribbling.


Heidi had dyed her hair and fled to the Hillbilly Underground Railroad: a haven for ex-meth cooks and multi-offender shoplifters.

Now I’m outside Murfreesboro, Tennessee. Shoulder throbbing.
“Heidi,” The Wal-Mart P.A. announces.
“Heidi to Customer Service.”


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