I hate demons,” I said to Francis. With a whap I slammed my journal shut. “They inspire bad poetry.”
“Among other things,” he said with a wry smile. He kept his eyes fixed on the road as we zoomed down Interstate 10. We were on our way to New Orleans to see my mama. Finally. It had been three long years. Nerves stirred my insides like the agitator inside a washing machine.
“Don’t get me started on John 10:10,” I ranted. “It says, ‘The thief comes only to steal, kill, and destroy.’ And his triflin’ minions never let up. They possess the people you love, attach...