On every birthday, Seth McIntyre dreams of the bridge. “Longest in the world,” his father had proudly proclaimed during a 1994 family vacation to New Orleans, as if he’d personally fastened the lugnuts. They’d taken the elevator to their hotel’s highest floor, the boy glued to the oversized windows, ocularly chasing down the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway until he could see no longer.
But in the dreams, Seth glimpses what lives on the eight-mile section of the bridge where land is not visible, what brushes against the cars so quickly it’s never noticed at all by the waking eye.
He will never fly within 500 miles of New Orleans.
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