My father was a witch with no spells. He just begged the dry ground for water, his twisted forked stick reminiscent of a witch’s broom.
The stick quivered in my fingers after I snuck into the keeping cabinet.
We were outcasts in Broken Wheel, not white Klan and not not-white, crosses burning in our yard. Margaret Mitchell Elementary was our home. My father was tasked with finding water for the town. The water tower remained empty and city streets grew dustier.
They came for him at the witching hour, four minutes after midnight. Four minutes before the rains finally came.