Part I Harold Latham had lived alone in the house on Maple Hollow Road for almost twelve years. Since Maggie passed, he’d settled into a rhythm that left little room for surprises. Morning coffee on the porch. A slow walk to the mailbox. A crossword at...

They sent us out just three days after the water started receding, while Aquarena Springs still smelled like algae and rot. You could see where the flood had chewed up the shoreline, deposits of tangled grass and fish bones clung to the fencing that marked...

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