wakey-wakey ray: the I-7 killer.

The blessings had flowered and went into the wind so long ago, much earlier in the season, and possibilities hanged from the branches, beginning to rot in the summer swelter.

Meghan Meade had perched beside the highway, neatly on public property, still, bestriding the line between truth and evidentiary proofs of the human state, torrents of vomit and other bodily fluids.

She told the nation what was known that day, the popular line between the department press officer and Fox, what was between a packaging foreman, hitch hikers, the alligator sent away, set neatly aside, stomach cut open to hunt for evidence, scat parsed like scripture fragments.

In the heat of that summer swelter he had disappeared nine into the back of his Nissan Juke.

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