This was the accursed national forest famous for its tangled kudzu, its meth reek and the outlaw lives played out on the pulses of the strong, the failing and the weak among its inhabitants. No one had been meant to actually live there. Of that place an arguably wise man once said: “This here is the Sherwood Forest. This here is the fucking Hole in the Wall where none but the strongest minds and wills fucking prevail in.” John drove to the Church of the Savior, where the U.S. government’s road met the county highway, a neat assembly of metallic prefabs. There was a less neat double-wide positioned beside it where Dr. Russell Fumes, the church’s pastor, lived with his young wife. The cleric’s wife was not at home for John Clammer’s visit, but Fumes himself was awake in bed, made uneasy by the sound of Clammer parking his vehicle. “John!” the pastor exclaimed when his security lights caught Clammer about to knock on his door. “Lemme unlock it. I thought you was in the hospital, John.
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