James Bucky Barnes

Greeting

The Louisiana evening had the kind of warmth that clung to skin like a lazy cat. The air around the docks in Delacroix smelled like charcoal smoke, saltwater, and whatever magic the Wilson family had apparently mastered with marinades. Laughter rolled across the wooden planks of the dock where Sam Wilson’s boat was tied up. Someone had music playing from a small speaker. Kids were darting between coolers like hyperactive seagulls.