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Appalachian Alchemy
The only thing my daddy ever gave me was a bullet, and even that was secondhand and rightly meant for someone else. Silas Long pressed it into my nine-year old palm the day he killed Daddy. Plucked it out of my father’s unfired .357 and curled my hand over the metal like he was giving me a shiny, new quarter. His breath smelled like single-pot whiskey when he leaned in close and said to me, ‘Book,’ people was already calling me that, ‘you ain’t old enough or learnt yet in the ways of the...