Content Warning: Suicide or Self Harm, Depiction of Death or Terminal Illness Anne Marie Greene walked into Lake Saint Mary in the summer of 1922. This was thirteen years after Saint Mary the town had become Saint Mary the lake—after the body of water that had previously existed on the north end of the plains, near Silver Bay, had inexplicably decided to move south; after that great wave had washed apocalyptically over the houses and churches and general stores that made up what had been, to that point, the largest community in the Bay country; after the evacuations and the deaths and the countless, fruitless rescue missions. Only twenty-four people escaped in time—the rest were left down there, and the town was preserved underneath the waves like something cast in amber. A man on the northeast shore of Lake Saint Mary was checking his fox traps when Anne Marie went in; he saw her only as a small smudge at the far edge of his vision. The trapper watched her walk to the water, kneel, place one finger in like she was taking its temperature. Then she took her clothes off and walked in nude. Her footfalls were deliberate and slow; her toes and heels and calves were sucked into the mud, her pale flesh slowly consumed by that lake. She didn’t float, and she didn’t thrash. The trapper watched without moving for a few minutes, waiting to see Anne Marie Greene’s blonde head surface above the water. The water remained glassy and smooth, so he left his traps and hurried to the shoreline. He found her footprints, already half lapped away by the water, and her clothes: a long linen dress, some no-frills undergarments, and plain black shoes. Unsure of what to do or who to alert, the trapper went back to his work. These were lean days in the Bay; there were no foxes in his traps that day, or for many days to come. Anne Marie Greene’s body never washed ashore. Theories are mixed as to why that is— and, come to mention it, as to why all the bodies left underneath didn’t resurface at some time or another. Whatever happened to them happened to her; she became one with the town. For my part, I like to imagine that she’s still down there, and that she looks exactly as she did on that day in 1922 when she walked down below. Maybe it’s only the gaunt imagining of a teenage boy. I’ve dreamt about the bottom of the lake before, and it wasn’t a nightmare. I woke up thinking: It’s not so bad down there, really. There’s nothing at all to bother anybody. I like to imagine that she walked straight down to the very bottom, where the town is. She’d stroll up Main Street and walk past the stores, go to a quiet neighborhood and find a home to her liking—white trim and an expansive porch, a sunroom built to the right-hand side. She’d stand on the doormat, knock on the front door, and go inside. Eventually she’d find herself upstairs, in the master bedroom. She’d get into bed, draw the covers around her body, and close her watery eyes. # Bryce called me at seven o clock when I stood in the kitchen with my parents. My mother stood at the sink with the dishes, and my father was running a rag over the table. We’d just eaten dinner. My phone on the counter displayed his first name in big letters. I’d never entered his last. I always hated to think about that last name. “Yeah?” My voice was carefully neutral. Emmy was gone. She’d been gone since that morning; Bryce had woken up alone in his bed, and she’d never come home. None of the texts he’d sent her throughout the day had delivered to her phone. His calls rang into nothing. “She didn’t leave a note, she didn’t leave nothing,” he said. “I have no idea where she went.” My parents could hear the phone. My mother stopped with the dishes. She stood facing the sink. My father took a seat at the kitchen table and stared at the wood grain. “Have you heard from her today?” Bryce asked. I opened my mouth, picked a word. “No.” “No?” “I don’t think I have.” A small lie—I’d gotten a text from Emmy after midnight. Just three words. I’m sorry, buddy. I’d been asleep. I called her when I woke up, but she didn’t pick up for me either. Texts showed up on my phone screen with those horrifying red exclamation marks. Not delivered. “You have any idea where she might have gone?” Bryce asked me. “I’m scared. Something could have happened to her.” At this, my father rose from the table. His hand was clenched around the cleaning rag, his knuckles white. He stood at the sliding glass doors behind our kitchen table and faced out into the evening. “I really don’t know.” I shrugged my shoulders, though of course Bryce couldn’t see me. “We haven’t seen her.” That part wasn’t a lie. My calls, my father’s, my mother’s—all unanswered. But we shared the same little flutters of hope in our chests. We’d been looking out at the parking lot all evening, expecting to see Emmy’s white car pull in. “Can I come over?” Bryce asked. “Maybe we could put all our heads together.” For the first time, my father’s head turned towards me. He shook his head. “Let’s see if she turns up tomorrow, okay? She might just need some space.” For a long time, Bryce didn’t answer. There was music playing wherever he was. I could hear the ghostly strains of an acoustic guitar. Restaurant? Bar? Maybe he was playing music in his house to alleviate the silence. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll check in tomorrow, yeah?” When he hung up, my parents left the room—my mother upstairs and my father out the sliding glass door into the yard. He would walk. Since Emmy’s wedding, he’d worn out two pairs of shoes plodding through the neighborhood on those evening treks. He forgot to shut the door, and I stood inhaling the air. It was the first night you could properly call cold—the first chilly evening of autumn. I did my homework in Emmy’s room that night, kept exactly as it had been when she’d lived with us. Her salt lamp was still on the nightstand, her green comforter on the mattress. I was working on my history paper when Dad came back in. I heard the sliding glass door, its familiar catching sound on the runner. He walked past Emmy’s room and didn’t stop when he saw me at the desk. # There’s another thing I like to imagine. I’m pretty sure that if you went to the lakebed now, in the Year of Our Lord 2024, it’ll all be the same. Like Pompei was—how they found the ash figures frozen forever in the positions they were in when Vesuvius blew. If you went down to the bottom of Lake Saint Mary with diving equipment, I believe you’d see the town as it was the day the lake moved southwards. There would be people frozen halfway down the aisle at the general store on Main Street, and children playing in the front yard of the homes. One of Saint Mary’s policeman might be sitting stolidly at the intersection of Elm and 34th, his head leaning back against the headrest of his 1920s Tin Lizzy. Faces would be turned northwards in horror— each thinking variations on the same theme: I never thought it would be like this. I can sympathize. I know Emmy can, too. Nobody properly imagines what the future holds; no one ever prepares themselves to deal with its disappointments. My vision of the lakebed is demonstrably false. As you’d imagine, the town has become a popular locale with divers; they’ve scoured and photographed the crumbly remains over and over and over again. Nobody’s frozen down there—nobody’s down there at all. The bodies have decomposed, or else been eaten by whatever creatures live beneath the surface. The divers post online videos of their exploits: they wear cameras attached to their foreheads and comb through the landmarks that are still recognizable. Many videos use old black and white photographs of Saint Mary to create a before and after effect—they’ll show a photo of the old courthouse on a sunny day in the 1910s, and then they’ll cut to a video of the building now, subsumed beneath the water. It’s surprisingly intact, all things considered. Those distinctive columns are still there. The divers can still climb the stone steps to the front of the building and stand before them, where the mayors of Saint Mary placed their hands Bibles and recited oaths. They’re cast in darkness now, clustered with underwater growth. A few videos show mammoth catfish gliding between the columns, silent as ghosts. These videos are a bit like murky photos of the Titanic at the bottom of the seabed. There are podcast episodes about the flooding, and once a short documentary on the History Channel. The documentary’s producer came to do a lecture in Silver Bay, years ago, and I convinced my mother to drive Emmy and I to see him. He stood on a platform in a dingy library auditorium and showed slides of the underwater town. My mother shivered at one in particular: a photograph a diver had snapped in a bathroom in one of the larger houses on the outskirts of the town. What shook her, I think, was that it was all still there. The toilet, the vanity, a big claw footed bathtub. Darkened, wrong, but there. “It’s like the underworld,” my mother whispered to me. # Two days and no response from Emmy. I went to school and basketball practice. I did my homework at the kitchen table. Bryce didn’t call again, thought he sent a series of increasingly frantic text messages. Suitcase still here. Toothbrush still in cup. Do you think I have to report her missing to the police? None of the neighbors want to talk with me. I wondered why he was confiding in me, of all people, but what had been true in the beginning was true now: he didn’t have anyone else. I didn’t tell my parents—I feared breaking their optimistic silence. They continued to look out the window each night, expecting headlights. Every day that we didn’t hear from Emmy drove them deeper into themselves. My mother had expected Emmy to arrive back home with her suitcase in hand, asking for her old room; my father had expected to be able to stand at the front door and push Bryce away from the threshold. Get lost. Not welcome here. But our calls rang out to an empty line; our text messages showed as undelivered. When we tried to ping the location of her phone, it showed as unavailable. “I’m not worried,” my father said one night. We’d finished dinner. He was staring through the sliding glass door like his upcoming walk was painful to contemplate. “Me neither,” my mother said. She was answering my father but looking at me. I finished my homework at Emmy’s old desk. Afterwards, I curled myself into her bed; I tucked a pillow between my knees and lay on my side and watched the streetlight shine through the gap in the window blinds, a square of solid yellow on Emmy’s white wall. There was something scrabbling outside the window—a cat in the garbage can or a racoon. It kept me awake. When I woke, I had a new voicemail. Bryce had called at three forty-seven in the morning. Off kilter, a little high pitched. If a voice could be sweaty, that’s what this one would have been. “You know what? Fuck you. Fuck you, and fuck your mother, and fuck your fucking father,” the message said. “I’m going to find her myself, and all the lot of you can just go ahead and fuck yourselves silly.” Emmy had played a similar message to me once. That night had been months after her wedding. She’d shown up with her arm in the sling. You know what, sweetie? You’re lucky I’m as goddamn nice as I am. You know that? You know how lucky you are? Bryce never remembered making the calls. He’d developed a talent, Emmy said, for forgetting. # People started seeing Anne Marie Greene again in the seventies and eighties. Well before I was born, though I know from school it was a time of uncertain hopelessness, the kind of environment in which a ghost appearing from the waters of the lake wasn’t too startling. Less startling, certainly, than the fear of a quick flash and a bomb mushrooming in the lower atmosphere. A pair of teenagers from Kingston were the first. They’d driven out to the lake on a Saturday night, parked their car at a gravel lot near the north shore, and began fogging the mirrors. The moon was high in the sky, not quite full; the pale gloom of it was perfectly reflected off the glassy expanse of water before their windscreen. She appeared at their car window like a rubbernecker looking in—a young woman, blonde, wearing stiff clothes out of fashion. The boy in the car saw her first; he opened his eyes and let out a strangled yelp, but Anne Marie Greene was gone as quickly as she came. They got dressed and searched the area around their vehicle for footprints in the soft mud by the shoreline. There were none to find. Two years later, it was a hunter in the forest, heading west, homeward. Anne Marie Greene stood on the surface of the lake—startlingly pale, with a dress that trailed out behind her like a bridal gown’s train. She stood a few hundred yards out, but the hunter was sure that she was staring right at him—close enough, in other words, that the man could make out her placid expression. She never moved. The hunter turned his head, and when he glanced back, she was gone. Each sighting was like that, little stories trickling through the Bay Country like a slow-moving stream. They trickle still. A man from our church, Mr. Jameson, claims to have actually spoken with Anne Marie Greene. It happened when he took his family camping on the lake. Early fall, still warm enough that they could sleep under the stars beside the campfire. Mr. Jameson says that he woke up in the middle of the night to a woman sitting in one of the little folding camp chairs. “Lovely night,” the woman said. She didn’t look at Mr. Jameson, but she was clearly speaking to him—his wife and his daughters were out cold, their chests rising and falling in peaceful rhythm with each other. Her voice sounded distant, almost echoing. She fit the description from the stories: her long blonde hair, her pale face, her old linen dress. Her voice was entirely normal, he said. As normal as a voice could be. “Lovely night,” Mr. Jameson repeated. For a long time, the woman said nothing. She was leaning towards the fire, her hands tucked together in her lap. “I knew it immediately,” Jameson says, every time he tells the story. “I knew from the moment that I saw her who she was. And I was never afraid.” When the woman at the fire made no move to continue the conversation, Mr. Jameson rose from his sleeping bag. He wiped the sleep from his eyes, but she was still there when he opened them, plain as day in that folding chair. Mr. Jameson waved a hand in the direction of the family’s cooler. “Can I get you anything?” he asked. It was a ridiculous thing to ask a ghost. Anne Marie Greene turned her head, gave him a little smile, and rose from the chair. She began walking towards the shoreline, and Mr. Jameson watched as she waded in, step by deliberate step. Swallowed, he always says. That’s the word he uses. # When school let out, someone was waiting for me, leaning against my little sedan. I thought at first it was Coach Nivens, but then I got closer and saw Bryce. His eyes were glassy, calm, and I breathed easier. You can tell instantly whether voicemail-Bryce has shown up or not. “I’ve got her,” he said. “I just got a location. Like a half hour ago.” He showed me the phone screen, and sure enough—Emmy’s face hovered above a blue dot on the map. The dot jumped a few pixels west every couple of seconds. “She’s moving,” Bryce said. I didn’t say anything, though I was disappointed to see it. I was no better than my parents; I’d expected her to ring our doorbell, too. Bryce looked down at the pavement, then up towards a red car inching past us in the parking lot. Jenny Mathers waved to me from the driver’s seat. “Will you come with me?” Bryce asked. “To talk to her?” I wanted to break out language from his voicemail message, tell him to fuck himself, but even at his angriest my father would regret me using that language. I wanted to see Emmy, too, and I thought my presence at their reunion could provide a buffer. We took his car—I sat in the passenger seat, watching the neighborhoods of Hollyville fade into the edges of town, watching those edges fade into tall grass and fields and sky. There were few clouds, but enough cover that the sun would dip behind one every few minutes, and the whole country would turn slate gray. “Where’s she going?” Bryce had his phone on the dashboard, still watching that little blue dot. He turned to me. “Do you know?” I kept my eyes down, glanced at my watch. My parents, at that hour, would have clocked my absence. They wouldn’t be very far behind us. “Nope,” I said. “No idea.” # I knew: Kingston. A little town on the plains created by those few survivors of the Saint Mary wave. On a map of the Bay Country, Kingston lies like it wishes no one saw it, like it would inch eastward away from the lake if it could. There’s a house in Kingston that’s dedicated to Anne Marie Greene. They keep artifacts they claim belonged to her: a journal she supposedly wrote in, the clothes she left on the banks. A busty mannequin wears the linen dress in a big glass case, the way they keep George Washington’s army uniform in the Smithsonian. I’ve never been. On the website, the house advertises The Complete Anne Marie Greene Experience, as well as something called The Candlelight Spirit Tour and Vigil. Emmy and I used to imagine going—we made plans to stay the night in Kingston’s one motel, scramble over the countryside in search of Anne Marie Greene’s presence. There are pictures of the dress online. It looks like it might have been salvaged from water damage—spots where the material has torn, where stitches have come undone, where damage from the sun or the elements or simple disregard have wounded it. Her undergarments are there, too, likewise shapeless and damaged and unworthy of a prominent place in those glass display cases. I used to imagine the questions I would ask when Emmy and I were at the museum, the finer points of Anne Marie Greene’s life that I would inquire about. I’d stand in front of the display case, looking at the dress; I’d take Emmy’s hand and we’d listen to the museum curator, and we’d know all along that we knew more about it anyway. # Emmy’s blue dot came to rest on the shores of Lake Saint Mary, maybe ten miles before Kingston. Bryce pointed to the dashboard. The sun had almost slipped past the horizon; the fields on either side of the highway were splashed with new, orange light. “We gained a little on her,” he told me. I wasn’t sure why, but he was whispering. “We’ll be there soon.” But he didn’t keep going. When he saw the next exit, he took it. There was a dilapidated white gas station on the side on the road. The parking lot was gravel. Metal bars in the windows, advertisements placed between the bars that could have been for a strip club or for prostitutes. Bryce asked me if I wanted anything, and when I didn’t say anything, he went in. Two minutes later, he was back with a bag of sunflower seeds, an empty plastic cup, and something wrapped in a brown paper sack. He held the bag up to me, and I shook my head. The gas station’s light poles switched on as we pulled back onto the highway—I saw it happen in the side mirror, all at once, like someone had flipped a big switch. By this point, there was nothing more than the hint of a glow from the horizon. The fields were getting darker. I saw Bryce’s jaw moving. He looked at me, then at the road, then back at me. “Look,” he said. That seemed to be the end of it. He waited for me to say something, but I didn’t. Finally—painfully—he cleared his throat. “I get it, alright?” Our own little dot was now visible on the same screen as Emmy’s. She hadn’t moved. We couldn’t see the lake yet—it’s surrounded on the south by a thick forest—but we were beginning to trees splashed like dark ink against horizon. Bryce slowed the car and flipped his headlights on. We began straining ahead for some kind of turn. Eventually, the trees grew larger, and we came to a turn, and Bryce took it. The road was dirt and unmarked. “If I were you, I’d hate me too,” Bryce said. “I’d want to kill me.” # It feels unfair, in some ways, that I haven’t been among the visited. I’ve wished desperately through the years to see her, and I’ve felt anger in my heart towards people like Mr. Jameson who go about telling their stories in hushed tones with dramatically wide eyes. You might as well add a flashlight underneath their face and add screeching sound effects. It’s a Halloween story for them. I want to grab his face with both hands and shake it. That’s not what it’s about, I want to say. You’re missing it. I’ve looked for her, but I suspect it’s a self-defeating mission. I imagine that the people looking for Anne Marie Greene are precisely the people she refuses to reveal herself to. But still. You can hope. Last year, I played hooky the day before finals and drove my little car to Kingston to spend a few hours traipsing around the beaches in my tennis shoes. I didn’t have much hope; I had to leave before the deep dark of the evening fell, and that’s when all the sightings I’d heard about had happened. No self-respecting ghost would be caught dead underneath a sunny afternoon sky. But I arranged to come again. For my birthday, my father took some boys from the basketball team to Kingston. Benny Grant, Joseph McAlister, and Tyrone Anderson. We brought sleeping bags, a cooler filled with drinks and hot dogs, headlamps, and thick flannel blankets. My father paid a park ranger for the use of a piece of ground fifty or so yards from the edge of the water. He’d asked me the week before if I wanted Bryce to come, and I’d told him no. It was before my father had found out, but not before I had. When the other boys were asleep, I sat up on top of my sleeping bag, arms wrapped around my knees. The surface of the water was dark like a blackboard; there was very little moon on that night. Even if Anne Marie Greene had been standing on the lake, I’d have been almost unable to see her. So I got up, wrapped my jacket around my body, and went closer. The ground was soft, and my shoes made squelching sounds like something rooting for milk. An overturned log was on the shoreline; I sat on it and waited. I thought I had her. There was a flash of something flickering in the corner of my eye. For just a moment, it could have been her—standing on the water in her dress, a candle held delicately between her hands. I almost saw her without seeing her. I didn’t imagine she’d smile like Mr. Jameson had described, and I didn’t want a smile anyway. What I wanted from her was fire. Anger was something I could understand and send back to her. I know, I’d say—thinking, all the time, of Emmy. I am with you. Even as I walked back to the campfire, to my father and my teammates, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had been close. A common refrain in my life. Close. Almost. Emmy understood it; she called it junior varsity syndrome. To almost make it, to almost be good enough to be something, and to not quite make the cut. Anne Marie Greene would have understood this, had she appeared. She wouldn’t have needed an explanation from me, and I wouldn’t have demanded one from her. I’ve never considered such questions. When I imagine talking to Anne Marie Greene, it’s never about why. # There was a parked car that wasn’t Emmy’s. It was as close to the water as somebody could get it, the tires half sunk in mud. She’d driven off the road for about thirty yards, but Bryce didn’t take that chance. He put his car in park and looked around as if to take stock. He took whatever was in the brown paper bag and took a quick splash. I thought for a minute he was going to say something, the way he looked at me, but he only shook his head, and we got out of the car. It was a little beater of a thing. An old Toyota Camry with tires the size of donuts and paint that had once probably been dark blue. I didn’t recognize it as belonging to anyone I knew. Emmy drove a Ford. “Why here?” Bryce asked me. He still held the bag in his hands. He was wearing white sneakers and clearly hesitant to step off the path and into the mud where the car was parked. I think I hated him the most I ever hated him in that moment, for the way he protected those white shoes. The answer to his question was obvious: the pier. Jutting out into this part of the lake was a dock of weathered wood like a diseased limb. It looked like it was struggling mightily with gravity. A heron perched on its far side, white in the pitch night. The bird was looking at us, its head cocked, clearly unused to visitors. It didn’t fly away. The car was unlocked. Nothing in the front seat except two cigarette butts on the floor. Emmy didn’t smoke. The backseat had a blue drawstring bag, no markings on it, but there was nothing inside of it. The keys were still in the ignition. The engine was cool, but every minute or so it made a ticking sound like a broken clock. “Do you see any footprints?” I asked. Bryce had finally joined me in the mud; he stood on the opposite of the car as me and took another drink from the bag. “No, I don’t.” There should have been, with how soft the ground was. I expected to find Emmy’s size sevens in a clear line towards the pier. “Let’s check the dock,” I said. Bryce swallowed another drink. He followed behind me a few steps. The sound our steps made in the mud was wheek wheek wheek. When we got to the pier, I took a hesitant step onto the first plank. When the thing showed no sign of falling, I walked out to the far edge and looked straight down into the black water. The water lapped against the support beams like a dog. I didn’t notice Bryce coming up behind me until he swallowed loud enough to hear. “How deep is it?” He held the brown bag but wasn’t drinking from it. “I don’t know,” I said. The lake’s depth at its center, where the town lay, I knew by heart: one hundred sixty-three feet. But this was an offshoot, a little slice of water disconnected from the whole. It could have been only a few feet, though it didn’t look shallow. Something about the surface made me suspect dark, treacherous depths. “And the whole town is down there?” “Not here.” I pointed towards the greater body of water. “Over there. In the middle.” “Right.” For a long moment, Bryce didn’t say anything. The heron picked up one of his wings and began digging into the feathers underneath with his beak. “I don’t think I’d struggle,” he said. He was looking at me, his face flushed. He walked up to the edge of the pier and straddled the final plank with his muddy white shoes. “What?” When he finally did drink, he seemed aggressive with the bottle, like he couldn’t get it down fast enough. I thought of the phrase self-anaesthetizing only later. He closed his eyes. “If it came like that,” he said. “Like it did for them. So sudden. One minute everything’s normal, and then the next you’re under.” I didn’t say anything. “I wouldn’t struggle at all.” His hands twitched like they wanted to bring the bottle to his lips, but he stayed still. “What I mean is, if I fell right now, I wouldn’t struggle.” I’d never seen Bryce cry; I didn’t see him cry then. I looked back at the surface of the water and listened to the dry hiccupping of his breath. It sounded almost like an invitation. I could have placed my hand on Bryce’s shoulder, pushed forward, heard the splash. I think he was waiting for me to do it. “Jump, then,” I said. His shoulders shook silently. “Emmy’s not here,” I said. He didn’t respond, and that silence might have saved him—I heard a splash somewhere to the right, and as I turned, he moved away from the edge of the pier. I thought I saw something out on the water. It was white, whatever it was, and seemed faintly luminous. Gone as soon as I focused on it. The wind shifted and a cloud parted; the moon shined a shade brighter. That heron, bored of watching us, flapped away. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again the glow was back, though it wasn’t Anne Marie Greene. It was two yellow headlights from the trees. My parents had come, their sensible white four by four tracking my phone’s location. Bryce blew his nose into his palm. “Emmy’s not here,” he repeated. He nodded. “You’re right.” # Some nights I still go to sleep in Emmy’s room. We keep it the same as we’ve always kept it, as if she might walk in the front door at any moment and need a place to sleep. Mom knows that I sleep there—I’ve seen her washing that old green comforter for me. She saw that I saw and didn’t say anything. I sleep there because I’m trying to recapture the dream. It happened the first night I slept in the bed and has never recurred. It began without preamble. I stood on the shoreline with Anne Marie Greene’s hand in mine. She was smiling this time—her teeth were white and straight, and the sun was shining. Her hand was warm and smooth and alive. Her face was Emmy’s face. She started to take her clothes off, then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I started to take mine off, too. When we were both naked, her scars exposed, she took my hand again and led me down into the water. Our bodies were covered in gooseflesh. A bit of wind on the water. It was easy to walk down into the deep, though the mud on the lake floor grabbed greedily at my feet. We walked down to the very bottom. Arm in arm, like old friends. We passed little farmhouses on the edge of Saint Mary. Then came clusters of buildings like underwater caves. It was dark at the bottom, but I could still see everything. The street signs, the houses, the stores. City hall with its great columns. Eventually we found the house, and we stood together on the doorstep. Another woman opened the door, like I knew that she would. She wore plain clothing, and her hair was straight, and the Emmy that was also Anne Marie Greene passed my hand to the Anne Marie Greene that was also Emmy. One of them took a step back onto the porch and pointed up towards the surface of the lake. You could still see the sun when you looked up, a pale glow from a world no longer ours. # Kedrick Nettleton lives in the Tulsa area with his wife and children. He recently received his MFA from Seattle Pacific University, and his work has found a home in numerous smaller journals throughout the area. In addition to writing, Kedrick works at a nonprofit advocating for victims of domestic violence.
Anne Marie Greene
By: Kedrick Nettleton
About the Author
