Later he would tell the story—or at least most of it—to the one person he believed he could truly trust.

“I have this patient,” whispered Reese Jackson to his friend. They were down by the river, on a night that was way too quiet for late September; not even the crickets and frogs were singing. They, the two of them had always liked the river, the night, and the deep, rich smell of Mississippi that the river and the night called forth. Reese apologized for talking so low but continued on whispering, urgently telling his tale. Neither he nor his friend were aware just how far his voice carried, over the water, on the still air. They were not aware that someone was listening.

The Air Between Us by Deborah Johnson

the air between us




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