It’s there dancing among the fumes of a kerosene heater in a freezing trailer that snatches the breath from a mother, a father, a baby boy. It persists when all the niceties of civility fall away under the weight of their own impermanence. It can be divined in the eyes of the Wolf who buried seven young men and women under Tank Billups’s weeping willow tree. The Wolf who dreams of angels with their wings unfurled, their four faces rippling with a madness that comes from being too near the throne of God. The Wolf who revels in its secret. Who delights in hiding its true face. Yes, small towns
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