She'd gone haring off across the southern counties again, the devil at her heels. Simon, pill bottle in the glove box, spun down dusty roads and called into the kudzu-soaked woods from his window: Felicia, Fe-licia. The fullness of shadows answered, reminding him of Georgian nights spent between her legs. No place for a conservator. Or a cousin, however distant.
At the crossroads of 53 and 164 he found her. Like a scarecrow, dangling crucified from the road marker. Hands purple with pokeberry juice. He convinced her to let go, pushed a pink pill into her cracked mouth.