From a dozen directions the cicada assailed tender ears with their monotonous song. Air heavy with humidity sloshed through young lungs that didn’t seem to mind. Sweat soaked through the battered AC/DC T-shirt, ragged jeans, and down into tattered chucks. All the same, an impish grin made its way across the freckled face.

While considering if he could snag a big clump of Spanish moss, Clay stopped, standing stock still in what he thought was a familiar patch of wood. Quite frankly, despite his tender age of eleven, he could have sworn he knew every square foot of Yazoo county, and a fair bit of Warren. Thus he was peculiarly struck by a set of railroad tracks rising from the muddy sod to wend their way inconspicuously into the undergrowth.

The ties, half rotted and mossy, barely came into view beneath dirt, leaves, and muck. The rails, dark glimmering things like grandma’s old silver, called to Clay in a voice he somehow recognized. With little idea why, he heeded the call, and set out, destination unknown.