I hurry back to the house I grew up in.
Fish blood on my hands.
The lamp on the back porch is still burning.
The door is open.
The hunting beagles are fed and already asleep.
And there’s some cold supper on the table waiting for me.
I eat it cold too.
I ask my mother what is going to happen to me
when she dies.
She says Luke I am never going to die.
— LUCAS DEAN CLARK
