I was learning to accept that I was not crucial to the turning of the world, or the turning of his world, and often not even to my own.
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Down the road a ways I could see two boys from that rental shack down there, kneeling on the black road with butter knives. They were happily lancing the tar boils the heat had raised. Both boys had a look I knew so well, and the shack they came from I came from, too. We’d lived there nearly four years after General Jo’s parole came through. Such shacks pock our region, hatching batches of children the regular world will have to deal with down the line. These wild kids are reared on baloney and navy beans, corn mush and Kool-Aid, and quick, terrible rough stuff. Their lips are circled by orange or red or green juice stains and their knees and elbows generally have scabs on them from two or three scraps at recess. All they ever know is that they want, and someday they’ll learn you got, and after that the rest is sirens and statistics and nods from the wall of dead.
Daniel Woodrell, Give Us A Kiss: A Country Noir