As he lay in bed with a view of a chicken yard, a railed pen with six goats inside it, and a bladeless, rusted slip of a windmill strung with dead brush blown from a field of weeds, the man whose nickname was Preacher could not get the woman out of his mind, nor the scent of her fear and sweat and perfume while he wrestled with her on the ground, nor the expression of her face when she fired the .38 round through the top of his foot, exploding a jet of blood from the sole of his shoe.
-- One sentence from James Lee Burke's Rain Gods