Shelagh Powers Johnson
When We Were Wild
Part TwoIt was not the sort of story that could stay hidden in a small town. People in Florence paid attention to everyone else’s details: a car missing from a driveway in the early morning hours, a skipped shift at work, one less body tucked into the pew on Sunday morning. This was how the people of Florence governed themselves: with the understanding that there was no such thing as a secret.
When We Were Wild
Part OneThe memory is barely a memory. The night is a wound healed over, skin knit back together until it’s almost eerily smooth—a silky stretch of scar tissue betraying its otherness. It’s flashes of light cutting through trees, hot salt on my tongue, gurneys bumping over the curb and sliding into the backs of ambulances. It’s needles stabbing flesh, hands examining every inch of me, searching for answers.