They headed south along Interstate 81, snaking gracefully through rising mountains, the air heavy with the odor of apple trees, pesticides, and diesel trucks. The sun grew hotter and more irritating with every sixty miles. Malany seemed to grow more uncomfortable the farther south they traveled, like a watchful animal outside of its territory. They cruised past unpainted shacks with black families sitting around, silent and idle, gaunt or fat white men in tight, synthetic clothes. Fertile ground for a literary society, Beckman insisted, as he reminded her in an unpunctuated monologue on the literary tradition of the South. They drove until late in the afternoon, scouting every small town along the way until Beckman, with unashamed joy, announced that they had found it: a town of about thir
