Where Drowned Children Go
“In her dreams, Naomi was always driving.
The road unrolled before her like a perforated ribbon, winding amongst the night- dark trees. Shapes loomed out of the gloom, bone white and twisted strange, and she told herself that they were wood, nothing more, nothing more. What else would they be but trees?”
“Under the new moon, drowned children come out of our river. I don't know how long it's been this way. The notes from Sheriffs before me go back almost 100 years. They're called "foundlings" in those notes. My momma and grammy called them "water-children…”
“It had been in my family for as long as I could remember, for as long as anyone could remember, this heavy, ponderous thing, this inheritance. Its origins seemed to date back to the black and white parts of history, the eons that blended into long expanses of time where the stories of entire generations were reduced to single utterances…”