A serial rapist is on the loose in Greenwood, Georgia, the fully gentrified, college-adjacent, intown-smalltown where Benjamin Adams grew up. Where he’s returned.
He’s the suspect, of course: black male, defiant hair, low pants, that gait. Echoes of his face stalk the nightly news. They have for as long as he can remember. He’s not new to the town, but he is to its citizens. The indigene has come home.
It feels strange sleeping in the house where his grandmother just died, in his old room, in his childhood bed. But it beats the 1990 Accord he’s been wandering and sleeping in since his other-than-honorable discharge from the Army. He lies partly covered by the faded quilt that his Gran inherited from hers, and the springs of the mattress shriek beneath his body with every turn. Between the shrieks, the house is silent.
The funeral is tomorrow.