Miff guided the Conculator down the flat, gently curving ribbon of I-95 through North Carolina toward South, stopping only to pee, fuel up, and grab a handful of fresh cigars from the barn-sized humidor at J.R.’s in Selma. When he’d left Pittsburgh, it was thirty-five degrees and sleeting. Here, in the Heart of Darkness, the sun shone on the windshield and offered him the warmth that always made him forgive Dixie its sins.