We set out for the Mississippi, looking for some kind of Huck Finn adventure. Neither of us had read the books, but we’d seen it parodied enough to get the gist. It’s the country’s crease. If it folded in half.
It’s name sounded, and still sounds, magical. Musical. Some kind of incantation. Hidden in the syllables. We’d cross it as many times as we could. Every bridge moving North to South. East to West. And back. And then again . Counting. One, two, three, four… From one bank to the other, all the way down.
Guess we figured we’d find something.