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found—Luntville—which seemed nearly as desolate but at least they had a grocery store and a police department. The nearest real city would be Pulaski—a hundred miles away.
    Cassie sweltered at the intersection. She squinted, astonished, at a wooden sign that read WELCOME TO RYAN’S CORNER, HOME OF THE BEST POSSUM SAUSAGE IN THE SOUTH.
    You gotta be shitting me, she thought.
    Beyond, sporadic trailer homes seemed to wend their way through trees up into the foothills, many without power lines, and the exclusivity of out-houses made it clear that public sewage and domestic water lines weren’t taken for granted. Cassie couldn’t imagine people living in such extremes. In these parts, poverty and simply doing without were the status quo. It almost shocked her.
    “The Boondocks lives,” she muttered to herself. “This place is a cliché.” Decades-old pickup trucks sat tireless atop cinder-blocks. A flop-faced old hound dog loped lazily across the street, tongue hanging. Ancient men in overalls sat fixed in store-front rocking chairs, ringing spittoons with expertise or puffing on corn-cob pipes, as they creaked another day away. This place makes Petticoat Junction look like Montreal, she thought. When she crossed the street, the old men all looked up at once, their empty-sack faces leaning forward as if two buses had suddenly crashed in front of them. Even the dog looked at her, barked once very feebly, and loped on.
    HULL’S GENERAL STORE, read a creaking swing-sign. After the long hot walk, a Coke sounded like a good idea. Inside, a crag-faced old man in suspenders glared at her from a chair behind the counter. It took him almost a minute just to stand up. Looks like Uncle Joe’s movin’ kind’a slow....
    “What the hail are you?” the man said, gaping at her hair and dress.
    Here we go. “I’m a mammalian biped known as homo sapien,” Cassie curtly replied. “Ever heard of it?”
    “The hail you talkin’ about?”
    Suddenly an agitated fat woman with her hair back in a bun came in through a back room. “Gawd, Pa! It’s one of them tranvesterites, I reckon. Like we seen on Springer!”
    “A what?”
    “From the city! They call ‘em Goths! They listen to devil music, and half of ’em are really fellas tryin’ to look like gals! ”
    The old man stroked his chin, which looked like a pair of arthritic knuckles. “A transvesterite, huh?”
    Oh, Jesus, Cassie thought in mute anger. In a place like this, she didn’t expect to be well received, but this was too much too soon. So I’m a transvestite now? She faced the woman and, without really thinking about it, she raised her sarong and yanked up on the waistband of her black panties, stretching them tight across her pubis.
    “What do you think, Aunt Bee? Does it look like I’m hiding a penis anywhere down there?”
    The woman brought horrified hands to her lined face. “Good gawd!” Then she clumped hurriedly away.
    “The hail you want here?” the old man said.
    Cassie readjusted her sarong. “Just trying to buy a Coke in a free country.”
    “Ain’t got none. Get out.”
    Cassie just shook her head, smiled, and left. Now that’s what I call a first impression, she thought. Cassie Heydon, welcome to the Deep South.
    She should’ve known better than to come down here. Back out on the store front, she ignored the hateful glances from the other old men. As she walked along, she noted that most of the stores along the strip were long closed, unoccupied, easily, for years. Cobwebs had adhered to the insides of the front windows. The heat began baking her again; the locket with her sister’s picture inside grew hot on her chest. Rich little Goth girl’s first day in Ryan’s Corner—a bust. Can’t even get a bottle of Coke in this hillbilly hell-hole. It seemed wisest to just go back to the house.
    But then she thought: The house.
    She’d really hoped to be able to ask someone about Blackwell Hall, but after her first official welcome at