Dale Rourke is forty-one years old, runs heating and air out of Coley Mill, and lives by himself with a dog named Rooster. On the fourth of June his mower quits in the side yard, and a woman he cannot see says, plain as if she were standing at his shoulder: He's not going to make it to Sunday. After dark, they come back. The same voices, night after night, talking the way neighbors talk - polite, patient, and working their way through the old people of Cauley County. Get the papers signed. Wait until a long illness has looked long enough. Let Nance & Son handle the arrangements. The careful one is named Ferrell. He is the one who asks how old. Dale has a titanium plate in his jaw from a wreck on Highway 9, a ninety-eight-cent composition book he ruled himself with a straightedge, and no way on this earth to prove a word of it. Every door he tries ends the same way - a man his age in a small room, answering questions about sleep. Then there is Junebug, who never speaks while the others are on the line, and who talks him through to four in the morning, and who is the only voice in five months that does not think he is crazy. Delia Ann Kirby is seventy-nine years old and lives on Sawmill Road, and the line has already picked her day. A Southern crime novel about a man with a receiver in his jaw, a county that will not listen, and the distance between crazy and right.
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