Jerry Stintson was experiencing a surge of previously dormant, hidden emotions he’d never known himself capable of having.
Maybe it gets better, he reasoned. Maybe it’s like when you strain a muscle you don’t use–it’s sore for awhile, but then it heals and gets stronger than ever.
“Yeah, right,” he mumbled, but no one heard him over the coonhounds’ caterwauling.
He felt helpless and afraid. He had visions of finding his son’s body dead, raped and bloated in a creek bed somewhere. Maybe he was still alive, though. Maybe someone was raping him or torturing him.
Right now. Could be doing it right now.
How could he ever go to sleep again if theydidn’t find him? How could he lay his head on his pillow every night, close his eyes and get a peaceful night’s rest while his…
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