I drove to the lodge on the first day of September. A slow drizzle hung over the land, as if signaling the coming autumn. I passed through Crawfordville, which was little more than a post office and a gas station, a small school adjacent to a library in a converted house on the main road. I stopped to fill up the car, and wanted so badly to ask the station attendant if he knew Doge, but I held my tongue. I looked for him as I drove, but I saw no one.  

The entrance to Wakulla was gated. A black man dressed all in white worked the gate.

“Can I help you ma’am?” he asked.

“Yes, I have a reservation for this week,” I said. “I’m Caroline Montaine.”

The man checked a roster, gave me a nod, then pressed a button to open the gate. I drove down an avenue lined in live oaks, their immense branches swooping low over the lane, festooned with Spanish moss.   The lodge itself was almost blinding in its whiteness. A covered veranda with several arched french doors comprised the front of the building. A valet greeted me and I turned Artie’s keys over to him. Another bus boy took my bags upstairs to my room. There were very few other patrons, because it was off-season and because the owner of the lodge had only recently converted it for public use. The entirety of the 27 bedrooms and grand hall had once been his guest house, I was informed by the bus boy, who stood in the door with an outstretched palm and waited for a tip.  

Out the window of my room I could see the spring, glistening a deep blue even in the rain. An egret flew across the length of it as I watched, its fine legs outstretched behind it. The rain picked up, becoming a fine downpour. I made my way back downstairs to the soda counter, where a wall of windows overlooked the spring and the trees all around it, dripping with the Spanish moss. A boat pulled into dock, the tourists inside running through the rain with their hands held over their heads.

“Hello, Miss Montaine,” Deputy Harris said, taking the seat beside me. He was dressed in a polo shirt and plaid shorts, looking every bit the part of a tourist. Mrs. Thomas was with him and took the seat beside me. She was dressed finer than I had ever seen her, in a gray pencil skirt and a matching hat that she wore low over her eyes.

“Hello, Mr. Harris, Mrs. Thomas,” I said.

“So I informed Mrs. Thomas on the way over,” he said, “But I can tell you quickly so you’re not worried, Doge was spotted yesterday in Crawfordville by the post workers. He was followed to a farm just two miles north of us here on a road called Bloxham Cutoff. Some stealth surveillance was performed last night at an old farm site…” I felt as though my heart had stopped beating. I remembered to breathe. “And Doge was sighted with a handful of boys whom agents feel confident he houses in a barn at night,” I couldn’t breathe now. I must have looked anxious because Deputy Harris put his hand on my arm, “There has been no direct news about James or Hale,” he said, “But Doge was sighted with several boys. This morning additional surveillance caught him putting them to work in a cane field, and some agents were able to get photos of him using unlawful force with one boy. They have decided to move in tonight, while Doge will hopefully be asleep and while the boys will all hopefully be together in the barn.”

I took deep breaths.

“It is a lot to take in,” Mrs. Thomas said. She took my hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. “I’ve had the whole ride here to process it. You should take your time, Miss Montaine.”

“Is there anything else to know? Any reason for hope or, or- any reason to think James won’t be there?” I asked.

“Now I’ve told you all I know,” Deputy Harris said. “The Feds aren’t telling me everything, likely. But I’ve told you what I know.”

“I need to call Artie,” I said. “I want him here.”

“Go on ahead,” Deputy Harris said.

I called him from the lobby phone.

“Spectacular Spectacles, how can I help you?” a chipper voice said on the other end.

“Uh- yes,” I said. “Can I speak to Artie- Mr. Denton, please?”

“Just one moment,” the woman said. Her voice sounded a bit sharper as she spoke this.

“Caroline?” Artie said in a moment.

“They’ve found Doge,” I said hurriedly. “They haven’t seen James yet, or at least Deputy Harris doesn’t think so, but they’ve found Doge and they’re moving in on him tonight, late.”

“This is wonderful,” Artie said.

“I want you here,” I said. “I don’t want to be alone if there’s- if there’s bad news. And I want you here if everything goes well too.”

“Alright. I can fly into Tallahassee this afternoon.”

“Artie-” I said. “It isn’t going to be easy. Even if everything’s perfect, you know? It’s like how Davey was. Wonderful, but a bit broken at the same time.”

He was silent a moment. “We’ll just have to see, and take it a day at a time.”

“I know,” I said. I hesitated. “It hardly matters, but-”


“Was that Annabell that answered the phone?”


“Annabell, your former fiance.”

He hesitated. Then, “Yes, it was. But-”

“You might have told me,” I said.

“I was going to only-”

“I can’t think about it now. I don’t want to.” I shut my eyes, exhaled, and tried not to cry. “You can call when you know what time you’ll arrive in Tallahassee. I can pick you up.”

“I will. I appreciate it,” he said. “I love you.”

I hung up without responding.

Back at the soda counter, Mrs. Thomas and the Deputy were talking in low voices.

“Is everything alright?” Mrs. Thomas asked.

I nodded. “He’ll be here today.”

“Mrs. Thomas has just asked if she’ll be able to be there when they bust Doge,” Deputy Harris explained. “It’s something to think over,” he continued, “Because strictly speaking I would lose my job if anyone found out I’d let you. On the other hand, I feel like a mother should always be able to be with her kids, and if a child’s in harm’s way it’s up to the mother whether or not she puts herself in that same harm’s way, etcetera.”

“I fully agree,” Mrs. Thomas said keenly.

“All the same, I’d hate for you to be there if there’s bad news of some sort,” he said slowly. It was a euphemism, a code. We knew what he meant: if your sons have died, or are gone. If they were never there at all.

“If there’s bad news it will exist whether or not we’re present, and we will have to contend with it eventually,” Mrs. Thomas said crisply. Her brown eyes were flashing defiantly. She would not be kept from Hale.

“Your thoughts, Miss Montaine?” Deputy Harris said, turning to me.

“I want to be there. I know Artie will too.”

Harris sighed, putting his hands on his knees. “Well, I suppose if I called to say the Feds were on their way over to the farm, that wouldn’t be an invitation, and y’all would be able to do what you wanted to with that information, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, we would,” Mrs. Thomas said. She looked thankful.

“Alright,” Deputy Harris said. “But I don’t want to see you. Not even an inch of you, until it’s clear Doge is in custody. Is that understood?” We both nodded.

“Mrs. Thomas, if you’re alright with hanging out at the lodge for a bit this evening, Deputy Harris could call us here and then we could all ride over together,” I offered.

“It won’t be before 10 tonight,” Deputy Harris said. “They’ll want to wait till it’s good and late.”

“I’ll come to your room around 10, if that works for your and Mr. Denton,” Mrs. Thomas said. I nodded and smiled, but inside I felt nervous. I said goodbye and went to my room. I flipped on the television but couldn’t keep my mind on it. The hours stretched cruelly before me. Tonight, I would have James in my arms or I wouldn’t. Tonight I would see his face, seven years old, as beautiful to me as any flower or any star or the whole of the earth, or I wouldn’t.

The rain let up and I took a trail around the spring. It led through groves of palmetto and palms, the fronds dripping wet across the path. Once, only once, I saw a fire red lily push its bloom through the undergrowth. I stooped to examine it, to hold it in my hand, but at the brush of my finger the blossom closed tight, each petal curling in on itself like a shut fist.



Compared to the last time I’d been there, the Apalachicola Police Station was bustling. There were a half a dozen new men at least in the front room, standing around talking with their styrofoam coffee cups in hand. As I entered they hushed some. The officer at the front desk  greeted me. “Miss Montaine?” he asked. I nodded. “Deputy Harris and Agent Chiddle are expecting you in the conference room.” He led me through the office, where several more agents waited with police officers. Some were looking at maps, I noticed. This felt like progress. This felt like a plan was forming. Inside the conference room Deputy Harris introduced me to Agent Chiddle and had me sit beside Mrs. Thomas. A map was projected from a slide onto the front wall, and as the officer closed the door Agent Chiddle gestured to the middle of it with a thwack of his metal pointer.

“Crawfordville,” he said, looking first at Mrs. Thomas, then at me. “We’ve been able to identify the P.O. Box of a man named Chester Doge. A few of our agents have been able to infiltrate, discreetly of course, and this is not to be repeated, a few regional gatherings of the KKK. There are a few periodicals which circulate at such meetings in which euphemistic language is used to disseminate nefarious classifieds. One such ad was that of Chester Doge, who advertised himself as a guide for troubled boys.” Mr. Chiddle brought out a mugshot, sliding it across the table to Mrs. Thomas and me. Chester Doge was a round and doughy man. His grey eyes were dull, but his face was neatly shaven, his hair combed and parted. “Nothing incriminating about the ad, however upon inspection of his post office box application we found no posted home or business address (suspicious) and upon doing a thorough background investigation we found he hasn’t filed taxes ever (very suspicious) and was once arrested under the alias Dennis Smith (more suspicious) who was jailed and then released on (get this) kidnapping charges, though the case was dropped due to some mismanagement of the evidence and the recanted testimony of the minor in question. I’m guessing some underfunded judicial position was at play there as well. To conclude, we believe we have our man. We believe we know where he is, or was, and now the trick will be to get close enough for information without getting so close as to spook him.”

Mrs. Thomas wasn’t smiling exactly, but she had a clear, bright expression. “This is wonderful news, Agent Chiddle.” She reached out her hand to him. It felt to me there was a split second of hesitation before he shook it. “I’m so grateful to you and Deputy Harris both,” she said.  

Deputy Harris gave a nod of appreciation. Then he said, “Now I don’t mean to be a spoken record, but at the risk of redundancy I’ll say again, we’ve just got to wait a while now, ladies. A little while longer.”

“How far away are we from Crawfordville?” I asked. “Ought Mrs. Thomas and I to stay somewhere nearer, so we can be there if we’re needed?”

Mr. Chiddle scoffed. “You two won’t be needed, ma’am,” he said coolly. “And as I said, we don’t want to risk any chance that Doge would spook and leave. Is that understood?”

“It is,” I said.

After the meeting though Deputy Harris caught up with Mrs. Thomas and me. “There’s a hotel not too far from Crawfordville some of the agents mentioned. It’s a bit of an attraction, I’ve been led to understand, so I think it believable enough that two ladies such as yourselves might travel there without arousing suspicion. It’s the Wakulla Springs Lodge.”

“You forget, Deputy Harris,” Mrs Thomas said, “It’s likely a segregated institution.”

“Oh shoot, Mrs Thomas,” Harris said. “I did forget. I sure did.”

“I’ll check my Green Book to see if there’s a bed and breakfast for me in the area,” she said.

“That’s a wonderful ideal,” Harris said.

Idea, Deputy Harris,” Mrs. Thomas responded a bit coldly. “I assure you it is less than ideal.” Then she turned to me, “Miss Montaine, I’ll call over to your room this afternoon so we can coordinate our next few days.”

As she walked away Deputy Harris whistled a little under his breath. “That woman is something else, I tell you what.”

“She certainly has to bear a great deal, and she does it with grace,” I said. “I admire her.”

“I admire her as well,” he said. “I know a black woman in Florida ain’t exactly an easy person to be at the moment. I wonder sometimes how much faster people might have paid attention to Hale’s disappearance if he’d been white. So that has to be frustrating as hell, pardon my language. Not to mention she’s put up with a lot of incompetence from me since this all started.”

“You’ve done well, Deputy Harris. I appreciate you so much. Mrs. Thomas does too I know.”

“Thank you, Miss Montaine,” he said. “We’ve worked out alright as a team.” He paused, “I want you to know I think you’re a good mother.”

I blushed. I don’t think I’d ever been called a mother before. “I haven’t done any mothering yet.”

“Hell yes, you have. Squeaky wheel gets the oil, Miss Montaine. Don’t think these Feds aren’t aware there are two ladies in town missing their sons, waiting right here until they’re found. Two mothers who helped see to it the entire south east is paying attention to what goes on here.”

“I don’t think any woman would do less, when she knows her child is in danger,” I said.

“You’re probably right about that. Still doesn’t make it any less good though,” the Deputy said. “Just means mothers are an especially extraordinary breed of human, if you wanna know what I think.”

I smiled. “Thank you, Deputy. For everything.”

“Now don’t let anyone know I told you about Wakulla Springs, you understand. I’m on thin ice hanging round here as it is, but I plan on being there the minute they arrest that son of a bitch Doge. Pardon my language, Miss Montaine.”

I called Artie when I arrived back at the hotel room, catching him up on everything.

“Caroline, this sounds like they’re really going to find him,” Artie said.

“I know. I just hope he’s there. I just hope he’s there and safe,” I said. “If he really is being used for labor, surely they treat him half decent anyway. Feed him and such.”

“I hope so Caroline but I wish we knew more. It’s all I think about,” Artie said. “Today I bungled three orders, putting the wrong glasses in the wrong cases to be picked up. I was wondering what he looks like now, if he’d know us when he saw us.”

“Or if we’ll recognize him,” I said.

“You know,” Artie said, “I’ve been thinking it would probably be best for James if we were married. Hear me out- we want them to release him to us right away, but based off what’s happening with Davey and his grandparents it won’t be that simple, will it? There’ll be background checks and verifications. They’ll need to know they’re releasing him to a good, safe home. Seems our best shot of a speedy reunion would be to go ahead and get married first.”

It made sense. I wrinkled my nose. “I’ll take that into advisement.”

“That’s all I ask,” he said with a laugh. Then he continued more seriously, “The question is when do you think I should join you in Wakulla Springs?”

“It doesn’t sound to me like they’re planning on moving in tomorrow or anything. Deputy Harris is supposed to be keeping us in the loop as much as possible, says he’ll let us know the minute they’ve decided. But I think it would be best if you were here as soon as you can be.”

“Alright, well,” Artie sighed. “I’ll be there Friday night at the latest. If I need to leave sooner and I lose my job that’ll be alright. There are enough nearsighted people in the world I won’t be unemployed long.” Then he paused, “I can almost feel it, it’s seeming so near. You and me and James here in Nashville. I drove through this new little neighborhood on my way to work yesterday. Rows and rows of houses with maple trees in the front yard. Walking distance to an elementary school. Doesn’t sound half bad, does it?”

“No,” I said. But I was thinking how cruel it was to want something so much but to have no control over whether or not it came to pass. After we hung up I took out the atlas, tracing my finger along the snaked highway to Wakulla, the sixty miles left to travel between my boy and me.


The airport in Apalachicola consisted of a single hanger. The prop plane Artie would take to Atlanta was already out on the tarmac, the pilot and inspector walking around it. The pilot was checking gauges and tire pressure; the inspector was making notes on a clipboard. “I want you to call me when you land,” I said. I had never ridden in a plane before.

Artie chuckled. “I will. It looks like a tin can, doesn’t it?”

“I hate that you’re leaving,” I said.

“Me too. But I want you to call me everyday with updates. I’ll be back the minute there’s news.”

I nodded. Artie kissed me. “I love you,” he said after, his eyes meeting mine. It was the first time he’d spoken the words since we were children.

“I love you,” I said, hugging him.

“I want you to marry me, Caroline,” he whispered in my ear. I shook my head. “Now I know your thoughts on the matter, and I know you’re as stubborn as they come, so I’m not asking you a question. I’m just telling you how I feel. I want you to think on it is all.”

I  bit my lip, smiled a little in spite of myself. “I’ll think about it.”

He kissed my forehead, said, “Bye, Cari, my girl,” and then walked briskly to the plane, the wind picking up, his tie flying over his shoulder. He waved at me from the stairs. I don’t think he’d ever looked handsomer.

I watched until the plane disappeared into the clouds, realizing as it did a sudden threshold had been crossed. I was on my own for the first time in my life.

Back at the hotel I called my grandmother for the first time in weeks. “Hello?” she said, picking up. Her voice on the other end of the phone sounded frail for the first time in my memory.

“Hello, Grandmother,” I said.

“Caroline,” she said with a deep sigh. “I’ve been wondering after you, girl.”

“Well, I’m fine,” I said. “I’m in Apalachicola. Artie left today for Nashville.”

“I know,” she said. “I spoke to the Dentons at church this morning. They told me Artie was coming home but you were staying on a while longer.  They had that Davey boy with them, too. He’s a fine looking lad. They said he’ll be going to his family by week’s end they think.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said. “He is such a good little boy. I’m glad that some of his family still care for him.”

“Do you need me to wire you any money?” she asked. There was an earnestness to her voice, a warmth.

“Not at the moment,” I said. “I appreciate the offer, though.”

“I’ve been thinking about it all, Caroline,” she said. “I’ve had too much time for thinking, perhaps, but-”


“Let me say what I want to say,” she took a deep breath. “I know you blame me for some of what’s happened and you’re not wrong to. I was too harsh with you, perhaps, too stern. But whatever I did I did for love. I love you as my own soul, Caroline. I can feel the place where you’ve gone, right here in my ribs,” she said, her voice sounding as though she were fighting tears. “I wanted to save you from the world, my girl. I wanted to keep you as my own dear child a little longer. Your mother grew and left me so fast, you know. I only wanted to keep you. To love you. Please forgive me whatever wrongs I did you along the way.”

How I wanted in that moment to hold her.. I pictured her as she would be in her chair beside the phone. It overlooked the garden. I imagined her voice traveling the telephone lines, the miles and miles between us. “I forgive you,” I said, the words feeling insufficient to their task. “I am sorry too. I know I made your life harder than it should have been.”

“Caroline, loving you has been the great joy of my life,” she said. “And for all of it, I wouldn’t change you.” I could hear a final sniffle, then she said, more composed, “Now, I want to hear about Apalachicola. I haven’t been to the ocean in ages! Is it very crowded now?”

“The off season is just beginning,” I replied. “The beach is lovely.”

“And what news is there about the boy?” she continued.

“James,” I said softly.

“James,” she repeated. It was the first time she’d spoken his name. “I want to know everything.”

So I told her all about Deputy Harris, Mrs. Thomas, the Andersons, the most recent lead that James might be on a sugar plantation. I told her about Artie too, that we were in love again, or perhaps had never stopped loving each other, that he wanted to marry me.

“I’ve always thought the world of Artie,” she said. “You two are a good pair.”

We talked until dusk fell heavy outside. My grandmother excused herself, saying it was time for her to heat her supper. I promised to call again soon.

Then I sat quiet in the room, feeling the tug of my heart. Somewhere Artie was flying to Nashville through a blue black ether; my grandmother was shuffling safe in her lamplit kitchen; my mother was buried in the earth. My son I couldn’t picture anymore. He was stubborn and wild and perhaps too fearless for his own good. Wherever he was, it would be gloaming. The dark of night would be falling down around him. He would want shelter, rest, comfort. He would want these things, but I did not know if he slept on a bed or on the floor, if he had a blanket or not, if he would be sleeping with a full belly or a starved one.

And so I sent my love to him. I closed my eyes and willed it across whatever land there was between us. I willed it through the blue air, through the black branches of the pines, all along the tangled roots of trees and weeds and wildflowers. “I love you, my child, my only,” I said in the empty room. It was the truest prayer I knew.

Turn the page.


That night as we lay in bed we watched a coral honeysuckle creep its way into our room, twining round itself on the window ledge.  Artie was surprised. I calmly told him it was nothing too unusual.

“Flowers perform miracles ceaselessly,” I said.

“Do they now?” he said, smiling.

“Have you ever heard of a blood lily?” I asked. “It only blooms one day its entire life.  Grows all year long just to give itself up that one day. I always wonder how it knows to bloom. How its cells know the way to live and die like that.” Artie kissed my neck. He wasn’t paying too much attention. “Anyway, I’m glad it’s not that way for us. Not a whole lifetime of waiting and then quick as a blink it’s all over.”

Arthur sat up a bit, looked at me. “Unless it is that way for us. Uness that’s what life and death are. Like these years we’re awake on earth, that’d be the way a flower blooms, right? And then afterwards we’re just bulbs resting – or rotting! – in dirt again, forever and ever.”

“You sound cynical,” I said.

He shrugged. “Wasn’t it Shakespeare who said life was like an hour on the stage and then silence? Something like that?”

“Signifying nothing? That one?” Artie nodded and kissed my cheek.  I continued, “That doesn’t feel true to me.”

“No?” he asked. I shook my head. “What does?”

“I’d say if anything we’re more like trees. We’ve years and years to grow, to bud and bloom and leaf and watch them fall. To give ourselves to seasons of economy and rest, practicing life and death again and again, each year.  Hopefully we grow surrounded by those we love. Those who’ve given life to us, and those we’ve given life to. And then we’re able, if all goes well, we see our past and future thriving around us, to have our parents and our children with us as we age. Eventually our elders die and we see death for what it is. You remember that old snag in the school yard – how the raccoon family lived there, and the bats, and the rabbits in the roots, and the mushrooms up the side, and the resurrection ferns on all the branches.  If we’ve lived well, that’s what death will be. All sorts of life rushing in to fill the void.”

“You’ve thought this through,” he said, with a laugh.

“I’m just saying it’s all a miracle if you want to look at it that way. The flower sweet enough to only bloom once, and the tree that goes on living forever. I just hope I’m the tree and not the flower.”

“Alright. We’ll be trees then,” he said, kissing me.

Turn the page.


The Deputy slid a sworn declaration across the desk. Mrs. Thomas, Artie and I crowded in to see together.  It read:

My wife and I adopted James Anderson with the belief that he would be of service to us on our farm. We have a large property and often house boys in exchange for labor. There was nothing illegal about our intentions. We clothed him and fed him like one of our own. When it became clear to us that he was not an ideal fit for our family, we contacted a particular gentleman after finding his information through a classified ad in a publication that we have since misplaced. This gentleman was known to help in the moving about of boys to find them better placement – situations to which they would be better suited. We never knew his name.

This man arrived in late January. He picked up James and paid us $1000. This was in exchange for the room and board that James had received as well as adoption fees – an investment we would now not be recouping.  I did see that the man had Hale Thomas in the car with him, but I like to keep to my own business as much as possible. I did not ask questions. I assumed everything was above board.


Mitchell Anderson”

“It’s not much of a confession, is it?” Artie said, closing the folder and handing it back to the Deputy. We were seated in the police station in Apalachicola, a converted bungalow on the main strip.

“Hell no,” Deputy Harris said, with a half laugh. “‘No intention of illegal activity.’ ‘Above board.’ All that about taking boys in. Christ, Anderson makes it sound like he was running a charity. What we have here is child slave labor. And seems like he was paid a finder’s fee for getting James in the trade.”

“Christ,” Artie said. He slumped back in his chair and frowned.

“What publication was he referencing?” Mrs. Thomas asked.

“We’re still working on that,” the Deputy said. “But…” he hesitated. “We know the Andersons and the Sheriff are members of the KKK, and that there are periodicals that circumvent at those meetings. That’s one of the threads the Feds are following at the moment.”

“Circulate,” Mrs. Thomas corrected.

“Circulate,” the Deputy repeated. “Anyway, they’ve grilled Mitch Anderson a dozen times now. Doesn’t seem to be much more he knows, except he conceded that the P.O. box he wrote – the address of which he has conveniently forgotten – was in Florida.”

“He won’t say the city?” I asked.

“He says he can’t remember. That it might have started with C.”

“That’s not very helpful,” Mrs. Thomas said, arching an eyebrow.

“No,” Deputy Harris said. “But-” he grinned ever so slightly. “He said when the man arrived and met James, he said something like, ‘Boy, how you like sugar?’ and that James had said he liked sugar more than anything, his face had lit up, Mr. Anderson said. And then the man had said, ‘Well you’ll be working it till your fingers bleed.’ And then apparently James kicked at him and that’s when he was put in the car.” The Deputy waited for our response.

Artie gave a shrug. “So?”

“So we can start hunting out sugar plantations in Florida!” Deputy Harris said excitedly. “That narrows the scope a bit now doesn’t it?”

“Does it?” I asked.

“It does! Hell, y’all are hard to please,” the Deputy said. “The Feds were whooping and hollering when they got hold of that news yesterday.”

“You certainly seem hopeful,” Artie said.

“I’m feeling very hopeful, Mr. Denton,” Deputy Harris said. “Very hopeful, indeed.”  

“Deputy Harris,” I said, “Artie is flying back to Nashville on Sunday. I don’t want to leave if there’s any chance y’all might find the man soon. Do you think I should stay?”

The Deputy leaned forward. “If you’re wanting to be close when we find him, I wouldn’t leave right now. I have a feeling we’re right on the cups of it.”

“Cusp of it,” Mrs. Thomas corrected.

“Exactly,” the Deputy said.

Outside the station, Mrs. Thomas told Artie goodbye. “Safe travels back to Nashville, if I don’t see you, Mr. Denton.”

“Thank you very much,” he said. “I wish you all the best in finding Hale.”

“Mrs. Thomas?” I asked. “Where are you lodging?”

“There’s a bed and breakfast not far, owned by and operated for black people,” she said.

“Are you planning to stay on then?” I asked.

“I am.”

“What about your other children? Your husband?”

“They understand there’s no other place for me now,” she said. “I wouldn’t be any further from Hale than I have to be. I’ll be there the minute he’s found.”

I nodded. As she walked from us, I told Artie I wasn’t leaving without James. “I don’t need more time to decide,” I said. “I want to be here.”

We started back to the hotel. Artie put his arm around my shoulder. “I can keep paying for the hotel room a while longer, I suppose,” he said. “But I do think I’ll be heading back this weekend. I hope you understand. I’ll return the minute there’s news.”

“I understand,” I said. I watched as a coneflower bloomed on the walk beside us, its petals a deep red, its pistil the color of fire.


The telephone rang early Monday morning. “I would like to speak to Artie, please,” Mrs. Denton said when I answered. Artie was lying on his stomach, still asleep.

“Artie,” I said, “It’s your mother.”

He groaned. “Tell her I’ll call her back later.”

“He says he’ll call you back later.” There was a heavy silence. “Can I take a message?”

“Yes,” she said coolly. “You can tell him someone has contacted us about David. Social services is investigating, but it looks as though they’ve found the boy’s paternal grandfather. I just though you all should know.”

“Well that’s wonderful news!” I said. “Thank you for calling. And do let us know-” She hung up the phone. “She cut me off,” I frowned, turned to Artie. He sat up in bed, kissed my shoulder. “But she said that social services thinks they’ve found David’s grandfather.”

“Really? I’m surprised.” He stood and started to get dressed.

“Are you?” I asked.

“I thought his family sold him into this mess.”

“I know,” I paused, trying to remember his story. “Your mother said this was his paternal grandfather. I think it was his mother’s family he was living with before.”

“It’s good news anyhow. We need that around here,” he said.

I thought of the flowers last night, feeling hope rise within me. I couldn’t speak it though. It felt as if that would break the magic, the way nobody is supposed to announce what they wish for when they blow away an eyelash, or blow out candles on a birthday cake. I dressed quickly. We were meeting Mrs. Thomas at a diner at 9.

“Aren’t you coming?” I asked, as Artie sat back down on the bed.

“I have a call to make first,” he said. “The optometrist in Nashville; I’m supposed to start working a week from today. I’m going to ask for a week’s extension.”

“It might be longer than that,” I said, biting my lip.

“I know,” he said. “This will buy me time anyway.”

I kissed his cheek. I exited our hotel and walked around the block to Forbes Street, a warm breeze blowing hard from the ocean, the hem of my skirt rising in the wind, some of my hair coming loose from its bun and falling in front of my eyes. Mrs. Thomas was in the back of the diner, in an area marked “Coloreds.” I walked uneasily past the roped barrier towards her. I sat down and ordered my coffee.

The waitress didn’t look pleased at the two of us together. A couple of the patrons, dock workers wearing overalls and rubber boots, scowled at us.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said.

“It’s alright,” she replied. “Maybe we should have met in your hotel room.” She gave a subtle nod in the direction of the other white customers.

“We’re not doing anything wrong,” I said.

“I know that,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean it won’t cause trouble.”

I felt my heart sink in my chest. What would it be like to always be treated so rudely? To always live in such fear? “I want to do whatever makes you feel most comfortable,” I offered. The waitress came back with my drink.

“You have your coffee and we’ll go,” she said.  “There’s not too much to say, is there?”

“I suppose not,” I said. I wanted to tell her that for the first time in weeks I felt hopeful, that flowers had formed a blanket of white all around me, proof of my son’s existence, somewhere. “Artie and I tried to figure out a new plan of action. We haven’t come up with any new ideas. We can put posters up, same as we did in Chatom.”

“How’d that work for you in Chatom?” Mrs. Thomas said. She arched her eyebrows. It hadn’t proved useful at all, of course.

“It kept us busy,” I said. “When I’m not doing anything, just wondering where he is, I go crazy.”

“Well, that’s something then,” she said. Then she leaned in closer. “I hope you won’t think me forward, but I’ve been wanting to ask you about Mr. Denton and yourself. You’re not married?”

I shook my head, “No.” I wanted to be tactful. “We were just children when James was born.”

“So you put him up for adoption? And then he was adopted by the Andersons?” I nodded, feeling ashamed. I must have looked it, for she quickly added, “I don’t fault you for it. I was only nineteen when my eldest, Clara, was born. Frederick and I were married, both attending school in Jackson. Even so it wasn’t what I’d envisioned for myself.  I wanted to be a career woman for a few years before we started our family. Frederick and I had to grow up fast. He finished college, and then took a teaching job in Chatom because it’s the first he found. Not an ideal place to raise a family, perhaps, but we were doing alright until this.”

The waitress came approached our table. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “But I was wondering if you’d be willing to move tables. You’re making some of our regulars feel uncomfortable and I-”

“We were done anyway,” Mrs. Thomas said, rising. “Thank you.”

As we left I heard one of the men utter an obscenity under his breath. Mrs. Thomas held her head higher. I admired her restraint.

We bumped into Arthur on the sidewalk outside the shop. “You’re done already?” he asked.

“There were some very unpleasant men in there,” I said. “They didn’t like that we were sitting together.”

Artie frowned. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Thomas,” he said. “Anything I can do?”

“Not unless you can change the South in a day, I’m afraid,” she said. She gave a little laugh.

“We’ll I’ve just gotten off the phone with Deputy Harris. It seems the news that the boys were in Florida did jog the Andersons’ memory some, that and a sound threat to strip their girls of the Andersons’ land holdings if they weren’t cooperative soon. Suddenly they remembered a great deal. No name or address yet but a lot that’s useful. The Deputy sounded very hopeful. He wants to meet with us later with more details. 3 o’clock, our hotel room.”

“Well this is wonderful news!” Mrs. Thomas said, clapping her hands together once. “I’m going to call me husband and catch him up.” She headed to a pay phone at the end of the block.

“Meanwhile I’ve a bit of a setback, I’m afraid,” Artie said, his hand on my elbow. “My boss wants me there Monday, no excuses.”

“You told him about James?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. He ran his finger through his hair, awkwardly. “He didn’t seem to think that was much of a reason, the boy having been in an orphanage so long, and then with the Andersons. He wasn’t entirely sympathetic.”

I sat down on a sidewalk bench. “So you’re leaving then?”

“I’ve got a plane ticket for Sunday morning. I wasn’t sure what you would want to do.”

“What can I do?”

“You can come back with me. Stay in my apartment in Nashville until this is all sorted. Until there’s news.”

“But it seems there was news, just today. I don’t want to be halfway across the country if he’s here somewhere. I want to be close when they find him.” I took a deep breath, composing myself. “Is it alright if I wait a day or two to make my decision? If there’s no news before Friday I suppose I’ll buy a ticket and go with you.”

“To Nashville?” he said, the faintest smile beginning. He took my hand, looking happy I would be joining him. I couldn’t share his enthusiasm. Not until James was found.

“It would only be until there’s news. And then we’ve quite a lot to figure out. When they find him,” I said, “We’ll have to what- petition for his adoption? Or argue that our giving him away was null? Or-”

“I don’t think you should get ahead of yourself,” Artie said, shifting on the bench. “If they find the man, that doesn’t mean James will still be with him. We’ve no idea what it will mean.”

“I’m choosing to be optimistic, Arthur.”

“I know,” he said. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up and -” He paused, seeing that tears were coming to my eyes. 

Mrs. Thomas coughed politely. “I’m going to go back to my hotel now, but I’ll meet you later to talk with the Deputy.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Thomas,” I said. “We’ll see you this afternoon.”

I waited until she was out of earshot, and then turned to him.  “Arthur, I need you to believe, do you understand me? I need you to believe that something beautiful is about to happen.”


“No, I mean it,” I was trying to stay calm but my voice was faltering. “I need you to picture him, seven years old, as beautiful as the sun. Our son.”

He looked at me fiercely, nodded, and wrapped me in his arms. The wind blew harder around us. Sand flew up from the pavement. It whipped our ankles. We went to the beach anyway. We watched the waves roll in and out over our bare feet. We watched the way pelicans and sea gulls fall with the wind, rising with their wings outstretched. 

Turn the page.





We met them at a corner on Decatur Street. She was wearing a neat gray dress and her auburn hair was impossibly tidy and worn high in a bun. I was surprised to see that she was wearing sunglasses. Perhaps this was so her emotions wouldn’t be easy to read. He had polished his shoes, and despite what must have been five hours or more in the car his pants looked freshly pressed, the starched crease still visible on each leg.

“Here we go,” Artie said.

David took a deep breath and began fidgeting with his new tie. I paused, leaned down a little to look him in the eye. “This isn’t like before,” I said. “I know it’s not easy being passed off like this, but you’re going to have your own room, and you’re starting school next week.” He nodded, staring at his feet. “We’re not leaving yet. We’ll have a bite to eat before we go.”

The crosswalk began flashing. Artie crossed the street, gave his mother a hug, and shook his father’s hand.

I stood as tall as I could. “Mr. and Mrs. Denton,” I said, and nodded a greeting. I was willing myself to be brave, to remember I wasn’t a child anymore, and that I needn’t be afraid of them.

“Hello, Caroline,” Mr. Denton said, good naturedly. Mrs. Denton didn’t say anything, and because of the sun glasses I couldn’t tell if she even looked me in the eye.

“This must be David,” she said instead. She held out a hand to him. “David, we are so pleased you’ll be staying with us a while.”

David had been biting his lip, but he gave a forced smile. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Denton.”

“Should we go inside, have a bite to eat?” Mr. Denton asked.

“Sure,” Arthur said.

In the diner we ordered a small lunch. The waitress told me good naturedly that she thought David looked more like me than Artie. “He may be blonde but he’s got your eyes,” she said. No one corrected her. With David, we spoke mostly of Sparta, described the school and square, the little room that had once been Artie’s that overlooked the church yard. At some point, Mr. Denton nodded to Mrs. Denton knowingly with a cough, and Mrs. Denton asked if David wanted to sit with her at the counter and order a milkshake.

“Arthur, your mother and I have talked it over, and you and Caroline are getting married. I can perform the service today if you like.” Arthur choked on his soda. I felt my face flush. “Marriage is honourable in all, and the bed undefiled: but whoremongers and adulterers God will judge.”

“Jesus, Dad,” Artie said.

“And now you’re speaking profanity to me?” Mr. Denton smacked the table. “I won’t have it. I will not have it, Arthur.” Mr. Denton was growing red. He pointed a shaking figure at the two of us, looking around quickly and lowering his voice. “You two have had relations and you’re getting married.”

“I’m not getting married,” I said, my heart pounding. “Not ever.” I’m not sure I’d realized I felt this way, before I spoke the words. But now I knew it was true. Arthur and I had loved each other purely and without pretense and we had made a holy and pure being in the process and he had been hidden away and lost only because he had been conceived outside of marriage and now I wanted none of it. I looked hard at Mr. Denton. “I’m sorry, Mr. Denton, to upset you.” Artie gave me a quick look, his eyebrows furrowed, before focusing again on his father.

Mr. Denton’s eyes grew wide, but he kept his voice low and calm. “Listen, you little whore, I’ll not have you damn my son forever-”

“That’s enough,” Artie said, standing. He took my hand. “How dare you call her that. What Caroline and I did or do together is none of your business.” Mr. Denton stood hurriedly, bumping the table and spilling his drink in the process. We walked over to Mrs. Denton and David at the soda counter. “David, I want you to enjoy yourself at school. Mother, we’ll keep in touch.”

“Goodbye, David,” I said, giving his cheek a quick kiss. “You’re a good boy.”  The boy looked stunned that we were leaving so quickly. “I want you to call us whenever you need. We’ll let you know as soon as we’re settled.”

Outside the wind picked up. “That went as bad as it could have possibly gone,” Artie said, getting in the car. I didn’t disagree. “I’m sorry he called you that.”

“Thank you for defending me. I’m sure it wasn’t easy.”

We were silent a while. We got back on the highway, heading east.

“You surprised me some, though,” he said. “You never want to get married?”

I thought a moment. “Before I got pregnant, when it was just me and you in the woods, I used to think we were like Adam and Eve before the fall. It felt holy to me.”

“It felt holy to me too,” he said.

“To think that meant nothing to the world, because we were a bit young, because we didn’t have some slip of paper. That’s why James is gone. Because the world could look on that and only see sin. Only see something shameful we’d done. Instead of the beautiful thing it was.”

I remembered something I’d wanted to ask before. “How many other girls have you been with  now?”

Artie’s face grew red. “How many would you guess?”

“One or two. At least Annabell.” He shook his head. “More?”

“Only you,” he said. “Somehow you getting pregnant scared me away from the idea.”

“Imagine that,” I said, with a laugh. He looked at me, smiled. I felt a lightness in my chest.

“To be honest, Cari, I think if you hadn’t gotten pregnant we would be married. I think about it now and again. We would have gone to school together. You would have majored in education? Nursing?”

“Botany,” I said, decisively. He raised his eyebrows.

“Alright, you would have majored in botany. And after we graduated we’d have been married. We might have another baby by now.”

I could almost picture it. Our house, our garden. I would cultivate rare breeds. Roses white as snow, black irises, daffodils that bloomed in winter. And what would it be like to be proud to be pregnant? To have Arthur smiling beside me, proud that I carried his child? Arthur took my hand, kept his eyes on the road.

“I would marry you,” he said. “For lots of reasons that have nothing to do with my father or the Bible.”

“Then you ought to at least kiss me,” I said. Arthur pulled the car far over to the side of the road, and wrapped both arms around me, kissing me until I felt weak and strong at once, as if roses bloomed deep within me, as if a tide somewhere was slipping out to sea.

Turn the page.


My mother came to me in a dream that night. We were at a motel, halfway to Atlanta.

In the dream she sat on the edge of my bed in the motel room. Her hair was the color of silver, her eyes were two little moons. She was shining like some pale star come to earth. She was a thing almost terrifying in its beauty. She took my hand, led me out the door of the motel into the thick air of the night, cicadas humming all around us, fireflies flickering in the lawn.  She walked to a small row of roses growing in a concrete planter, mostly bloomless in the high heat of summer.

“Mother, I dreamed you were dead,” I said, and even as I spoke the words I knew it was true. Almost twenty years dead.

“Right here I am, Caroline,” she said, and she touched the nearest rose bush. A blossom peeled forth, glowing like a star. “And here,” she said, and another grew. It lit up with the brush of her finger. “And here,” she said at last, and placed her palm on my cheek.

I woke coughing for air. Arthur stirred some, offered me a glass of water.

“I’m alright,” I said. He rolled back over in his sleep.

The dream had felt so real that a hope had swelled within me. I walked out into the parking lot. I expected flowers, roses, dozens of them. I expected daffodils and irises and tulips.

Instead, even the bloomless roses were imagined. There was no concrete planter. There was a drizzle and the cicadas were silent, and the fireflies wouldn’t return until the spring, and all I could hear in the damp night was a train whistle, calling somewhere far away.


“A servant of servants he shall be to his brothers. Servants, be subject to your masters with all fear, not only to the good and gentle, but also to the froward.”

It was written in a faded red on the back of what had once been the boys’ door. It must have been painted some time ago, for the paint was chipped and peeled in places, and was covered in a thin layer of dirt. David was pointing to a set of bunk beds on the far side of the room. The mattresses were a light brown, there were no coverlets, no sheets. The curtain that hung from the window did not flutter in the still room.

“And that was where you slept?” Mr. Carter repeated.

“Yes, sir, that’s where I slept. And James slept on the bed above.”

Mr. Carter jotted something down on his notepad, then tucked it under his arm. On a strap around his neck was his 35mm camera. He focused, snapped a shot of the bed. Took another photo of the door. “I want you to show me the field, now, David, if you would. Tell me about a typical day there.”

“I can lead you out this way, Mr. Carter,” Deputy Harris said.

Artie put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, gave a gentle squeeze. “You’re doing fine, David.” David took a deep breath.

“We’ll take these back stairs, here,” Deputy Harris said, leading them out into the hall, where a heavy steel door was propped ajar with a brick.

Alone, I walked to what had been James’s bed, ran my hand over the place where he would have rest his head at night. I said his name once: “James.” In the stillness, I wondered if there might exist some magic, some way in which he might hear me, having once lain in that bed, perhaps even lain in that bed thinking about me.

Artie wrapped his knuckles on the door frame. “Keep up, Caroline. We’re outside.”

David marched us through the field. I was pleased to see with three weeks’ absence it was already looking ragged, with grass springing up in the low beds. I wanted it to turn to forest. I wanted the creeks to overflow, turn the fields to sea. I wanted it to be as if the Andersons had never existed.

“And once more…” Mr. Carter said, his pen at the ready.

David repeated, “They said the Lord was coming to take him away, and where the Lord lives there’s no shade and the sun always shines. It’s always hot and there’s always work to be done.”

We walked back to the car, David swinging a stick, leaving a path of felled wheat stalks behind him. When we got to the car he shook Mr. Carter’s hand before climbing into the back seat, resuming his comic book. David was a fine boy, sweet and affable, but I could tell sometimes looking at him that his spirit had been broken along the way. He could be enthusiastic, could laugh, could enjoy television shows and skipping stones and ice cream and comic books, but still there was a gravity to him that seemed to run underneath it all. A heaviness that shouldn’t belong to a boy of ten years.

“It’ll be a few months before they stand trial,” Deputy Harris said.

Mr. Carter nodded. He was the Federal attorney. So far, the Andersons were being tried for fifteen counts of kidnapping, conspiracy to kidnap, and peonage.

Then there was one count of homicidal negligence; an older boy caught pneumonia the year before, working out in the field, and the Andersons didn’t take him in for treatment, not wanting to be suspected of anything. His name was Charles. He was sixteen. He’d died of a fever any doctor might have cured. First he’d been a rumor told by the boys in interviews: “and one boy even died, caught cold last year and was just let to die in his sleep one night.” Then dogs were brought out, and a shallow grave was found out behind the tool shed, marked inconspicuously with a little stone.

The Sheriff was still being investigated, charges were expected but hadn’t yet been published. And neither the Andersons nor the Sheriff had been cooperative with the investigation. As Mr. Carter spoke to Artie and the Deputy, I stared at the spot in the lawn not far from us, eight feet in diameter, the ground a charry black from where they’d burned their correspondences and contacts, all the information that might have been useful in finding James, or David’s family, or information about the dozens of other operations like this one likely still continuing all across the south east.  

“We’ll let you know if there are any developments,” Deputy Harris said. “I want y’all to try not to worry, and to have a safe trip home.” The men shook our hands in turn, then sat together in Deputy Harris’s patrol car, where Mr. Carter continued taking notes.

Home. The sound of the word felt hollow to me. I had dared to dream, now and then, that when we left at last it would be with our child. That at least, I would have been able to rest my hand on his head, speak a kind word to him, see him to safety. I couldn’t imagine now going back to my grandmother’s house, my childhood bedroom, a garden full of wilting roses.

“Yes, thank you, Deputy Harris, Mr. Carter,” Artie said. He got in the driver’s seat, started the car. I waited. I felt, somehow, that James might walk out the front door. That he might appear to us out of the air like some wraith. That if I willed something with enough love, anything might happen. Artie got back out of the car, put his arm around my waist.

“I don’t want to go back,” I said. “Not without James. Not without… If I could only have seen him one time.” I put my head on Artie’s shoulder.

“It’s a hard lesson learned,” he said, his voice faltering a little, “Not to live with regrets. To do right the first time. We should have gone to Marietta years and years ago.”

“Or not at all.”

“Or not at all,” he said, and kissed me softly.

Beside us, a voice over the two-way radio in Deputy Harris’s car started blaring. Deputy Harris grew animated, slapping the roof of his car. He hopped out of the patrol car, ran over to us. “Looks like there was a sighting of James and Hale in February. In Apalachicola.”

“Florida?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am. The Feds are already on their way to question the witness. I’m requesting special permission to continue on, though it’s not in my jurisdiction, technicality.”

“Technically,” Artie corrected.

“We’d like to go,”  I said. “To be close by.”

The Deputy nodded. “I understand. I’m not saying it’ll be safe, but I can’t see keeping Mrs. Thomas away either, now that there’s new information.” He gestured to David, staring at us through the open car window. “I don’t think it’ll be suitable for him, though.”

Artie shook his head. “He can stay with my parents, in Sparta, while y’all keep trying to find him family.”

The Deputy nodded. He looked at us seriously. “February is five months ago. Almost six. I want you to understand anything might have happened.” He couldn’t bring himself to say more, but we understood.


News came in slowly at first. Deputy Harris was the first to call; he’d heard from Mrs. Thomas in Cincinnati. She sent her letters out to a dozen papers and news stations. Meanwhile back in Chatom the Sheriff had questioned everyone about their disappearance, wanting to know where David was, where we were, were the Thomases and the Deputy had vanished to and why. Mrs. Thomas’s sister was harassed at the grocery store. Her nephew was bullied after school by some of the Andersons’ boys on his walk home, arriving with torn jeans and a bloody nose and a bruise on his cheek the size of a baseball. There was a car parked out in front of Deputy Harris’s mother’s house most days now, one of the other police officers inside, “Just to intimidate her,” the Deputy said to us, “Just so next time they ask her where I’ve gone she’s so tired of all the commotion she tells them. But my mother is a stalwart, steady thing. They’d have to do a lot more before she’d talk, and that’s certain.”

Within a week Mrs. Thomas had the first call from the Atlanta Journal. There was a follow up, and soon Deputy Harris had been interviewed as well, corroborating the story. Eventually even we were contacted: a man called wanting our impression of the situation, asking how tall Mr. Anderson was, how large was the Sheriff. What did Chatom look like again. Artie told him of having our things searched in the hotel, the way the Sheriff had insisted that James had vanished, made no mention of Hale. We told them David’s story: half a dozen homes, the pantry, the workload, no schooling. That he had seen a man in a blue coat shake the Andersons’ hands and drive off with James and Hale hollering in the back seat.

Then we waited. Time became almost as oppressive as the heat. We went for drives in the afternoon for the breeze, Patti Page playing on the radio, David staring out the window, the flat land stretching forever before us.

“I wanna go swimming,” David said as we passed a creek, glistening in the light. Artie and I shrugged at one another, and Artie pulled the car over far on the side of the road. We walked carefully down the creek bank, and Artie took soon began teaching David how to skip stones.

I lay on the bank, watching the two of them. Artie was laughing as David’s first stone sunk fast. This is what it could be like, maybe. He would be shorter, darker. He might not smile so freely, might be more serious, might be hardened, might be joyful, he might have laughed just now when Artie slipped on the rock and almost fell, instead of politely ignoring it as David had done. How many weeks since somewhere James laughed?

David picked up a stone, turning it in his palm. “Like this one?” he asked, holding it out to Arthur, who walked over through the creek, taking it in his hand a moment before giving it back to the boy.

“That should do fine, David,” Artie said. It was dark grey. It was a small, flat chip of a rock, the size of a domino. David reached his hand above his head, shuttling the rock in the water.

“You gotta throw it sideways,” Artie repeated, shaking his head. “Like this.” He hitched back his arm, throwing his stone so straight it skimmed the water eight times before it sank below. David was already pacing the bank, turning pebbles over with his small fingers ponderously, trying to find his next one.

I dipped my handkerchief in the cool of the creek, tied it in a knot around my neck, the water dripping down my shirt. In June in Mississippi the heat felt so thick and close it felt like work just to breathe. David chucked another stone in the water. It bounced once before sinking, and he looked at Artie with amazement.

“You’re getting closer,” Artie said.

Through the trees on the high road behind us I heard a car come along slowly. I listened as it stopped and someone turned off the engine. Two car doors closed. Artie looked at me quickly. I stood, my pulse quickening. David was crouched on the ground between us, studying his stone. Slowly, so as not to startle the boy, Artie walked to the far end of the bank, picking up a long stick. Two people, maybe more, were walking towards us through the honeysuckle and privet that lined the trail. I could hear low voices. Artie looked ready to spring.

Then a young couple, not older than eighteen, came round the bend. The girl wore pedal pushers and sunglasses and the boy was smoking a cigarette. Arthur nodded to them good naturedly, and I smiled as well. They walked past us around a bend in the creek.

I exhaled. “We’ve gone crazy,” I said.

“We’re paranoid, is all, and we’ve a right to be,” he said, chucking the long stick back into the underbrush. He came and sat next to me on the creek bank. His face looked worn, exhausted. “It’ll be soon, Caro.”

It was the next day. The phone rang at 6 am. Deputy Harris spoke so fast we could hardly follow: “Aw hell, it’s a scathing expose. They name the Sheriff and the Andersons and practically indict all of Chatom and that’s what they do to. Front page, above the fold, font two inches at least. You could read this headline a football field away. “The Missing Children of Chatom.” It’s got a description of James and David, a request for information about his family, etcetera, and then a note about Hale too, and a whole page insinuating this is basically some sort of a slave trade or something and everything about Blue Coat and a call for an investigation from the SBI and everything. It’s everything we wanted.”

“You just wait,” the Deputy said, excitedly. “It’s just a start, of course, but there’ll be a lot to see in the coming days, don’t you despair yet, can’t hide two boys forever with the whole southeast looking at you. No sir. They won’t be able to hide them forever.”

Turn the page.