* * *
A half mile west of the lab was a town. It was really just a large fishing camp with a few stores, but had evidently been there long enough to warrant its own place on the map. Light rain darkened our hair as we stepped out of our rides behind a clapboard bait shop. Thunder crackled in the distance, rolling echoes that dissipated far out over the Mississippi Sound in the east. Swampy, earthy wind pushed into our faces, and with it, the energetic, buzzing pressure one feels being this close to the Gulf when a thunderstorm is approaching. The night moonless, the bait shop and ground were nearly black, glowing soft yellow in places our interior lights shined from open doors.
The storm's intensity increased, dirt quickly turning into mud. Footsteps squished from El Camino to van to For
