Excerpt from Treeborne by Caleb Johnson, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

But Wooten would not.

He called another play, another and another, leading the offense to the goal line in the same sweat-soaked clothes he'd worn the last four days his wife was missing. All the used-to-bes stopped laughing and clapping. During the touchdown play Wooten drove a boy named Winchell hard into the ground. The boy's cleat caught in the grass and his leg bent backward at an unnatural angle. The break, the used-to-bes later claimed, could be heard from the bleachers. Boys who saw the injury up close puked on themselves.

Coach Williams sprinted up to Wooten. "Get your sorry goddamn ass off my field right this second before I kick it all the way to goddamn fucking Bankhead and back."

But still Wooten would not.

The fight was over time Ren got there. The used-to-bes had gathered around their vehicles to rehash what'd occurred. Sometimes old Conquistadors got in on practice, but it was usually ones no more than a year or two removed from school. Wooten had been out coming up on a decade. He sat alone on the bleachers, the boys he'd whipped pacing the trampled sidelines with tiny paper cups of water. Ren waved to his brother-in-law then went to apologize to Coach Williams, who had a good-size welt on his right cheek. Bertrand English, an assistant, boasted a missing tooth and busted lower lip. Ren apologized to him too and asked about the Winchell boy. He'd been carried to Doc Barfield's. Ren promised to stop by and look in on him. He knew this story would hit The Fencepost before the dinner rush. Liable to make the next day's Elberta Times-Journal too. Coach Williams said not to worry about it, and he was sorry for bothering Ren at work.

"I tried over at the water department, but Tam wasn't in. Everything alright?"

"She ain't been feeling too good lately," Ren said.

"Well, it ain't easy what y'all been through this summer."

Ren grimaced as he shook his coach's hand.

He kept Wooten at the dam that night. Only had the one cot in his office, which he helped his brother-in-law onto after feeding him dry toast and as much water as he could stomach. Ren ate the last of some okra and butter beans then made hisself a pallet on the cold concrete floor. If he turned on his side he could hear the turbines working in the gallery fifty feet down below. He slept little that night, wondering if Tammy really had fled Elberta. If she had at least she'd waited till their momma wasn't around anymore.

Next morning Ren felt like he was the one who'd taken on the Conquistadors varsity squad, the coaches and the used-to-bes. Wooten was smiling and drinking black coffee in the break room with Willy Ramsey, one of two engineers at the De Soto Dam. Ren grabbed the Times-Journal off the table and carried it to the bathroom. His stomach complained to be emptied as he unzipped his blue jeans. His morning ritual was reading the Times-Journal all the way through while squatted on the toilet. Later in the afternoon he'd go back and hunt for any unread morsels. He read the paper to be up on things. There always seemed plenty in Elberta to be up on too. Other day one of the Farleys had a heart attack on his tractor. Unguided, the machine crashed into a haybarn and spun its tires so long that before anybody realized Junior Farley was missing all the gas ran out and the engine died same as the man. There was nothing about Wooten's fight in the paper. Thank God. Ren flushed then washed his hands.

Willy Ramsey was eating a baloney sandwich. Through a mouthful he said, "Woot here tells that Tammy's run off to be some kind of movie star."

"Ah," Ren said, setting the newspaper back down.

"Well I hope it ain't got nothing to do with that Peach Days mess," Willy said. "Not that I'm blaming her. This used to be a nice little town. Now I just don't know."

Excerpted from Treeborne by Steven Johnson. Copyright © 2018 by Steven Johnson. Excerpted by permission of Picador. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.