Eugene ground his teeth until they ached, and finally, Father Latimer parted the curtain and left him alone in the dark shroud of the booth. He listened as the priest's footsteps retreated, carrying him away from the confessional to the pulpit. Only when he was sure that Father Latimer was on the other side of the church did he fling himself through the curtain, heading for the door. He ran out of the church to the edge of the courtyard where he could look down the hill toward the bayou. The trees looked ghostly in the morning fog. Eugene stood, shaking, the only sound his own shallow panting, but Mary Beth's man did not appear. Eugene couldn’t will him into being any more than he could will her back to life. After an hour, when his exhaustion pushed his desperation aside to make room for heavy resignation, he turned to go. The roses looked faded, as if they too were in mourning. Had they borne witness to Mary Beth’s final moments? Eugene imagined their petals opening like mouths to wail their accusations— But there was no evidence of foul play. Everything had been washed away by the dark waters. All Eugene had was his own memories, buried under the weight of the priest's threats.

As the weeks slipped into months and summer was left behind, Eugene's mother plied him with medication—for his asthma, for the myriad illnesses that cropped up as the year dragged on, for his anxiety and his relentless nightmares. Night after night, the medicine lulled him into heavy slumber that dulled his mind and smothered his nerves. Eugene banished the rougarou to the dark recesses of his mind where it couldn't touch him, and by next summer, he thought of it as nothing more than a former night terror, hazy and unfinished in his mind's eye. Mary Beth occupied a small and guilty portion of his heart that, like a fresh bruise, he was careful not to touch. It took longer to shake the memory of the man, but eventually he too faded, like a ghost under the summer sun.

XI.

That night, Eugene dreamed of Chanlarivyé. He walked the empty streets of the empty town where no birds sang and no insects buzzed. His limbs were leaden as he waded through the thick wet air, the current pressing him back, making him struggle for every step. His lungs filled with water as the houses watched him, their windows staring empty-eyed and dark, as still as the grave.

He walked south. Above, the clouds rolled in deep and gray, the precursor to a summer storm that never broke. He could taste the rain and the sharp crackle of lightning in the air, but it didn’t come. Everything was still and heavy. The trees stood like great dark guardians, their leaves black against the sky, blotting formless shadows across the yards and pavement. Eugene was all alone. Not a single soul remained in the town. He walked like a mourner, his suit clinging to him like ragged wings, his shirt soaked through with damp.