Chapter Two: Crossett Gray The Crossett morning didn’t rise so much as seep in—a lightless dilution that crept through the mill fog and over the dead lawns. Judd Killion sat on the concrete step outside the double-wide, picking a pebble from his boot tread with the tip of a roofing nail, the half-smoked remains of a Swisher Sweet clenched between his lips. Smoke drifted up past the frayed bill of his hat—a black Richardson 112, the mesh torn from where the weed-eater cord caught it last summer.