The Davidson family was what some would call white trash and they knew it. They were aware of the stigma that came with their surname in Livingston Parish and they didn’t care, except for the patriarch of the family, Lehigh Davidson, who at ninety-one, wasn’t in a position to have much influence on his children. He had seen his five children all follow the same path to perdition; his three daughters had all gotten pregnant before they were sixteen and married white trash; young men who had already spent months in the county jail before their twentieth birthday. His sons had fared worse. He looked at Kevin, who was slouched on the sofa that had been placed on the front porch of their home (if you could call a hundred-year-old farm house in rural Louisiana a home), watching TV. Lehigh knew that Kevin didn’t even know what he was looking…