The Pascagoula River ran into its banks as if the Gulf of Mexico had oozed narrow fingers inland. At the I-10 rest stop, tourists bound for New Orleans debarked and snapped photos of each other and the muddy water.

A woman complained, “I don’t know why we stopped here; we’ve got toilets.”

“Grab a snack. Look at the bayou.” The driver walked towards the men’s room.

At the far corner of the building, an old man in a heavy coat shouted. “Repent!” He brandished a Bible like a weapon. “How shall you answer when He calls your name?”

He had an audience of one, a dark haired woman in short sleeves and jeans who had not arrived on the bus.… Read the rest