Candyce Byrne was raised by gypsies—well, not really. In a military family. Her peripatetic childhood convinced her that old beliefs never die but rather bob just below the surface of what we think of as reality. Her two beautiful sons grew up on Child ballads and local theatre (and football and baseball). She lives in a mythic Texas town with her husband of nearly 40 years, a pediatrician, and an aging dire wolf called Al—well, she's really half border collie and half Labrador retriever, but she's big and black and hairy and she terrorizes the mail lady.
I panic. I run back to the living room, my heart pounding and my breath threatening to crack my ribs. Smack in the middle of the greeny-gray, needing-to-be-vacuumed shag carpet sit two amazed-looking shoes. But no Larry.
Where on the face of God's pickled green earth is he?