It's dead winter in Arkansas, between the rival small towns of Batesville and Newark. The connecting road is a lengthy rope of black and stinky asphalt, blurred beneath the tires of a speeding vehicle. On either side of the road, thick mats of decomposing grass carpet the chilled earth. It's quiet out here, and cold, the kind of cold that hisses in your ears as it passes by, and singes the end of your nose and the apples of your cheeks red. Above, the sky is a warped solution of bruise purples, sopping greys, dim ivories. The only thing out there are the naked trees.
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