She clung to the night air, walking though the run down cotton fields and old pecan orchards. If the feeling of the sharp knife-grass or her feet dissuaded her, or the way the waxy Southern night caused her loose nightclothes to attach to her body, stick onto her like the ghosts of protective relatives, she didn’t show it. She stuck her tongue out, like a snake, and retracted it, testing something.

She paused, looking through the town ahead of her. If you want to imagine it just imagine or just dead town in the middle of Georgia that is just empty enough that you can impose your imagination onto. All you have to do is think about hot humid nights, nights that bridge the gap of imagination and fiction, a clearing of pine trees and a place that’s barely worth giving a name to.