To Charles Thomas—aka Charlie, Chaz, Cuckleburr, Charlie Britches, Chuck, Stinkpot, Chuckwagon, et al.—for being the best goddamn dog that ever walked this world. To Ash for bringing candles and sandwiches when I was lost in the dark of the cave. To Matt Yelen for packing grits. To the squirrel who jumped in my lap when I was propped against the trunk of a dogwood. To the pair of yellow flickers who landed on the limb above me when I was twenty feet up a pine. To the charm of golden finches who filled that hickory like a firework when the rest of the woods had long gone gray. To Zeno Ponder for bringing the jug. To Son-in-Law, Florida Joe, Burt, Carole, Walkabout Billy, Jax, Willy, the South Carolina boys, Screwy Lewy, Emory, Nancy, Diana, Randall, and Lowell for passing that jug around the fire. To Bunn for clucking and purring like the bearded hen he is. And, most important, to my agent, Julia Kenny; editor, Sara Minnich; publicist, Elena Hershey; and the entire team at Putnam, who I love like family and would bloody my knuckles for.