There is something out there, because there always is. There is something hibernating in North Carolina, something that can't die. Joshua Liam Miller knows this. He reasons that if it can not die, then he will plunge his hands into its open breastbone and make a home for himself amongst the red houses. He will feel its heart beating against his palms like a mutated kind of stigmata. There is something holy about desecrating a grave. There is something divine about an autopsy.
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There is no god in existence merciful enough to forgive him or what he's done.