The years on the run had taught Ronnie many important lessons in survival, one of the most important being: when you’re not sure whether to stay put or move, the best thing is to move.

So he turned, found the silver thread only he could sense, and began walking toward Cedar Hill.

The walk didn’t take nearly as long as he’d feared—just under forty-five minutes—and he found himself in Cedar Hill proper when he realized he was on Eleventh Street and White’s Field was to his left. But instead of continuing uphill on Eleventh, he backtracked half a block to the intersection of Union Street and West Main, turned left, and started toward downtown. He didn’t know why he was going this way, only that the thrumming in the silver thread became stronger as he did so.

He tried not to look too closely at the cheerless houses that sat along the street; tried not to count how many of them were in need of new paint, or roof repair, windows, front porches, doors, and—in one case—all of the wood surrounding the front window. Rolls of insulation were piled up next to the exposed area, and something—a dog or cat, or so Ronnie hoped—had torn through the protective plastic covering and yanked large pink chunks of the material out into the yard. Recent rains had turned it into soggy cotton candy. He hoped none of the children in the neighborhood had actually thought it was cotton candy and eaten the material.

A few houses later, an old, decrepit-looking dog raised its head from where it had been resting on the arm of a discarded sofa on the curb. It blinked a pair of nearly-white eyes in Ronnie’s direction and growled, then went back to its nap.

Children in dirty clothes playing in dirtier front yards with broken toys stopped their activity to watch in silence as Ronnie walked by.

He was really starting to wish he’d gone another direction.

In every city in every state, there are always one or two particular sections of town that never change, regardless of how fast or deliberate the march of progress affects everything around them. In Cedar Hill those two sections were this strip of houses along West Main Street, and the area known as “Coffin County” just over the East Main Street Bridge. Oh, the faces might change, the cars parked in front of the houses or in the yards might be different, but one thing remained constant; the hopelessness that hung over every house like a shroud.

Even as a child it had made no sense to Ronnie. The few people he’d known who’d lived on West Main or in Coffin County weren’t lazy or ignorant; they were hard-working people who did their best to take care of their families and maybe get ahead a little…but somehow the “getting ahead” part never seemed to become a reality. Sometimes people were laid off and had to apply for food stamps; sometimes they were hurt on the job—nothing crippling, but enough to keep them off work longer than the unemployment would pay for—and they’d have to apply for further government assistance; and sometimes people simply lost their jobs and their luck ran out faster than the money. Oh, sure, there were people who were just irresponsible drunks who somehow could muster enough brains to find a way to take advantage of the system, but most weren’t. But it didn’t stop this area from garnering the nickname “Welfare Row.”