“They would come out of the trees,” John’s father told him, “Painted, screaming…such an awful sound like you never heard.” He often talked about Tennessee as though it were a mystical land, and he always drank while telling these tales, punctuating each sentence with a gulp.
He looked at John once with his good eye, the one that hadn’t been hit by a flint arrow. He told him that, when it was his time, he’d hear the screaming again. And no one would be able to stop that because its just how it is.