I remember the first time I heard the stories.

I was seven, heartbroken and running away from home, convinced that if I could just walk to Atlanta, I could fix everything. The night air was thick with crickets and secrets as I crept past the cotton fields, my little bindle over my shoulder.

Then I heard it—a low, warm voice weaving a tale under the stars. Uncle Remus sat on a stump, surrounded by sharecroppers, telling how Br'er Rabbit tricked Br'er Fox with nothing but words. I froze, listening. When he saw me, he didn’t scold. He just smiled and said, 'Son, you can’t run to Atlanta on empty dreams. But you can walk back with a full belly and a wiser heart.'

He took me to his cabin, fed me stew, and told me the story of the Tar-Baby. I didn’t understand it then. Not really. But I knew one thing: I didn’t want to go back alone.

Now, as I lie here—broken, bleeding, drifting in and out—I keep calling for him. Not my father. Not my mother. Him.

Because only Uncle Remus can tell me how Br'er Rabbit got out of this one.

And maybe… just maybe… it’ll be enough to bring me back.