Pushing aside the thick curtains just enough to peek out, he looked at the back yard, studying the way the shadows crawled across the barren dirt as the sun began to set. He stood there, a single trail of blood running down the side of his face where he’d pulled too hard, until the moon cast a pale light over the island.

He smiled, letting the curtain fall closed. “Time to hunt,” he said, his voice soft as he wiped the blood away.

Light filtered through the leaves, casting fluid shadows that seemed to move with the breeze. Spanish moss hung, still and silent, from the towering oaks, not moving and when he looked closer there was no wind at all.

Saint Simons Island, GA – August 19, 2009 In what has become an all-too familiar scene this summer, Glynn County Sheriff’s Officers were called to the beach beneath the village pier where an early-morning fisherman discovered two bodies behind a piling.

That was the final curse. That sun, too hot, even in the rain, creating steam and heat and I can’t remember if I ever saw snow.

“Do you always notice the hospital?”

Henry shook his head, hiding behind his hair. “It’s big.”

“Does it bother you?”

“People who can’t remember who they are get sent there,” he said, the words bitten off and harsh.

“Is that what you’re afraid of?”

“Would it help?” he asked.