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Lost in Auraria with Tim Westover. Deep South events on John Kennedy Toole and Flannery O'Connor. Anne Rice's New Orleans apartment swap. Banned books & October reads. Famous literary characters in real life. Fairhope's Grand Festival of Books this weekend. And new fiction in Southern Voice. Happy Literary Friday!

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by Evan Guilford-Blake There is mist falling through the chilly Saturday afternoon sky, and the still-stark trees tilt from the wind. There are small pits, small swells in the old road. Now and again, the old shocks fail to cushion her and with one hand she holds to the dash to keep from bouncing. With the other, she touches her stomach. The roundness is just-visible to Walt, still invisible to nearly everyone else, though she has seen it for weeks, felt it, she’s sure, for longer than that. She runs her other hand over it, watching the road, the rain, thinks the baby, the baby. “Are you cold?” she asks Walt. “Me? No. ’re you?” Megan nestles herself tighter into the seat. “Little,” she says. “Turn up the heat.” She does. “Seems chilly, even with it on.” “Early March.” “We should get it checked again anyhow, huh?” “Uh-huh,” he says, as the car bucks once again, this time with more force. “Walt,” she says, “be careful.” “I am,” he says. “It’s this road.” He leans over the wheel, hands together at twelve o’clock, chin atop them, eyes fixed. “You okay?” “Yeah. I guess.” He smiles and nods. “How ’bout … ?” She runs her hands over her stomach. “Yeah, just, I can feel it

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