The year the fence went up, pines sprouted on the south side of Houston. They hurled themselves through warehouses and shops, obliterating some buildings and swallowing others, absorbing bricks, concrete, and steel into a tapestry of pale wood. Today, this blank spot on city maps runs from Houston to Canal, from Sixth Avenue all the way to the fence. Nowhere on the Westside are the trees as thick, the shadows as dark, the roads as twisted. It is an insane place, and Judy and Enoch Byrd would serve as my guides. They hadn’t wanted to come back here, but when I threatened to quit their case unless they gave me the tour I required, their mother ordered them to do as I asked. What a useful ally mothers can be.

The trees of the Thicket were evergreen, their branches thick enough to crowd out the sky. I walked slowly, watching every step, but Judy and Enoch strolled through the rough landscape like it was a fresh paved road. The path that had been West Broadway wound through monstrous vegetation and crumbled masonry. One building had been entirely overwhelmed by trees and vines, leaving a vegetative facsimile of the original structure in its place. Another had vanished completely, save for a network of copper pipes that stretched from the earth to the heights of the ramrod-straight trees.

“How long has it been since you lived here?” I said.

“We moved to Carmine Street after the fire,” said Judy. “But I like the Thicket. It’s a strange place to know your way around.”

Our road dipped into a hollow and rose straight through a building, which had a gap in it as clear as a machine-bored hole. Branches rattled, small feet scuttled, and I felt the presence of tiny heartbeats and animal eyes. I had already lost track of how long we’d been walking, but the Byrds marched on. For the first time, I simply had to trust them. I was surprised by how natural it felt.

Finally, we came to a slouching archway and a pair of cross-shaped windows: the remains of Bulrush Byrd’s original Electric Church. Beyond was a flat, snowy plain with an altar at the far end.

“You’ve seen it,” said Enoch. “Let’s go.”

“I didn’t come to gawk from the sidewalk. I need the whole tour, and the history, too.”

“Mam didn’t say anything about letting you inside. That’s holy ground.”

“I’ll take her,” said Judy.

“But she isn’t family.”

“I know, brother. But sometimes it’s easier to just not care.”

That’s a fine credo, I thought as I followed her across the threshold. The walk had warmed me up, but I felt a renewed chill when I passed beneath the stone. Judy led me the length of the nave, hands stretched out to brush the backs of long-gone pews.

“Was it a grand church?” I said.