Sinking Under Heavy Skies

7197 words

Jo’s hands gripped the edge of the kitchen sink, knuckles pressing into the chipped porcelain as if it could anchor her. The window above framed the cotton field, a gray-green haze under a sky too heavy for September, the air outside thick with the threat of rain. Inside, the house smelled of damp wood and something sweeter, like molasses left too long in a jar. She’d been scrubbing the same plate for ten minutes, the water long gone cold, her fingers pruned and trembling. Behind her, Robert’s voice cut through the quiet, sharp as a switch. “You gonna stand there all day, or you gonna tell me what’s got you jumpin’ at shadows again?” She didn’t turn. Couldn’t. Her eyes stayed on the field, on that black stain she’d found yesterday, the one that looked like it’d been burned into the earth but didn’t smell of ash. It smelled of blood, old and iron-heavy, and she swore it’d grown since she last saw it. Spread like a wound opening wider. Her stomach churned, a slow roll of grease and coffee from breakfast, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from snapping back at him. “I ain’t jumpin’ at nothin’,” she said, voice low, tighter than she meant. “You didn’t see it. That mark out there. It’s bigger,...