by Tommy Dean Grant Durr We’ve become the boys of the woods. The stars of an unplanned documentary. A small crew of camera men and a producer huddle around us at night hoping to catch us retreating back to our parents, to the well-lit hallways of our high school, to the anonymity of our social media avatars. One of us went missing three days ago. And depending on the source, a farmer or hunter found a missing shoe or shell necklace or a ripped leather wallet. The missing boy

by Tommy Dean Mishaal Zahed I’ve run out of places to put my wet clothes on those nights I visit the river. They’ve done something to the current. Your death has become political. A warning, but also a chance for people to nod solemnly on TV. They’ve promised no future deaths. Can you imagine making that promise? Sand bars rising from the slow trickle of water are littered with fish carcasses. Trash continues to wedge against the rocks and broken tree limbs. I stand in the mi