Chapter 1

Billy’s shirt stuck to his back like it had been painted on, and the air tasted like hot pennies and deep-fried regret.

He stepped off the Greyhound bus into a wall of humidity so thick it felt personal, like Alabama itself was trying to squeeze the Colorado out of him. The station—if you could call it that—was a shack with a rusted Coca-Cola machine out front and a single, sun-faded bench occupied by an old man chewing tobacco with the patience of a Buddhist monk. Somewhere in the distance, cicadas screamed like they’d just gotten bad news.

Billy adjusted the straps of his duffel bag and glanced around. No Michael.

He pulled out his phone and checked the last message. “I’ll be there. Look for the biggest fella in the lot. Can’t miss me.”

Billy squinted down the dirt road, past a couple of beat-up pickup trucks and a gas station where a group of men in overalls leaned against a stack of tires, drinking RC Cola and staring at him like he’d just arrived from Mars. The town—what little he could see of it—looked like it had been built in the 1950s and then abandoned sometime around 1983.

And then—he saw him.

Michael wasn’t just big. Michael was gravity-defying. A walking, sweating, Southern-fried miracle of excess.

He was draped in a pair of denim overalls that had clearly given up on their job years ago, the straps barely holding together over his bare, glistening chest. His belly pushed out like a watermelon someone had duct-taped to a tractor tire. His face was round and ruddy, with a beard that looked like it had soaked up more grease than a Waffle House grill. He had a thick mop of brown hair that stuck to his forehead in damp curls. And his hands—Jesus, his hands looked like they could crush a cantaloupe just by thinking about it.

Billy barely had time to process the sheer mass of his cousin before Michael let out a laugh that could’ve knocked birds out of the trees.

“Lord almighty! You skinnier’n a fence post in a drought!”

Billy flinched as Michael’s voice hit him like a truckload of biscuits. Before he could react, Michael stomped forward and wrapped him in a hug so intense it felt like being swallowed by a weighted blanket that smelled like barbecue sauce and sweat.

“Damn, boy! You ain’t got no meat on ya! They feedin’ y’all in Colorado or y’all just eatin’ grass up there?” Michael pulled back, looking Billy up and down like a disappointed chef. “We gon’ fix that.”

Billy coughed. “Uh—hey.”

Michael grinned, clapping him on the shoulder so hard Billy’s spine realigned. “Ain’t you just a sight. C’mon now, lemme get a look at ya. Hazel eyes, blonde hair—hot damn, you got your mama’s genes. I reckon if you had my daddy’s genes, you’d already be struttin’ around at 400 pounds by now.”

Billy gave a nervous chuckle. “Yeah, I guess.”

Michael slapped his belly, making it ripple like a pond after a rock had been thrown in. “Now, let’s get goin’. Ain’t no sense standin’ around in this heat. You ready to see your new home?”

Billy hesitated. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m ready.”

Michael grinned. “Good. ’Cause I made dinner.”



Michael’s house sat deep in the bayou, where the trees huddled together like old men whispering secrets and the mosquitoes were big enough to file taxes. It was a traditional bayou home—raised on stilts, paint peeling like a bad sunburn, the porch sagging under the weight of time and, Billy suspected, many years of Michael stomping across it. A rusted swing chair creaked in the breeze, empty takeout cups lined the railings, and a half-deflated kiddie pool sat in the yard, filled with rainwater and what might have been a dead frog.

“Welcome to Casa de Keaton,” Michael announced, flinging the door open. “Come on in, but watch your step—got some weak boards here. And don’t mind the smell, that’s just livin’.”

Billy stepped inside and was immediately hit with the aroma of grease, stale beer, and something vaguely sweet, like syrup that had been left out too long. The place was cluttered. Empty Popeyes boxes stacked on the counter. A deep fryer that looked like it had survived a war. A La-Z-Boy recliner that had clearly seen better days, its cushions permanently molded to the shape of Michael’s body. The TV was on, blaring an old episode of The Dukes of Hazzard, and the coffee table was buried under a small mountain of fast-food wrappers and soda cans.

Billy swallowed. “It’s, uh… nice.”

Michael beamed. “Ain’t it? Got everything a man needs. A fridge full’a food, a good TV, and a couch soft enough to swallow you whole.” He patted the arm of the recliner. “You can sit here, but I gotta warn ya—it’s got a way of makin’ folks never wanna get up.”

Billy cautiously lowered himself onto the couch, which did feel suspiciously like a trap. “So, uh… what’s for dinner?”

Michael’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I went all out for ya, cousin. We got fried catfish, hush puppies, mac ‘n’ cheese, collard greens, cornbread, mashed taters drownin’ in gravy, some ribs I been slow-cookin’ all damn day, and—” he reached behind the counter and pulled out a massive paper bag “—some Big Macs, in case ya still hungry.”

Billy stared. “How many Big Macs?”

Michael grinned. “A dozen.”

Billy let out a stunned laugh. “You serious?”

Michael flopped into his chair with a dramatic sigh. “Boy, you in the South now. We don’t play with our food.”

And then, the feast began.

Michael ate like a man who had been personally wronged by the concept of leftovers. He double-fisted ribs, sauce dripping down his chin, while alternating bites of cornbread and sips of sweet tea so sugary it could’ve given a horse diabetes. He dunked hush puppies into mac ‘n’ cheese like it was a religion. At one point, he dipped a Big Mac into mashed potatoes and moaned like he’d seen the face of God.

Billy, trying to keep up, took cautious bites of everything, his stomach expanding far beyond capacity. He wasn’t used to eating like this. Hell, he wasn’t used to seeing food like this.

An hour later, he lay slumped on the couch, feeling like a stuffed turkey on Thanksgiving.

Michael wiped his hands on his overalls and let out a content sigh. “That, Billy boy, is how a Keaton eats.”

Billy groaned. “I don’t think I can move.”

Michael grinned. “Well, you best make room.”

Billy’s stomach dropped. “For what?”

Michael lumbered to the fridge and pulled out a massive chocolate cake.

“Oh no,” Billy whispered.

Michael grinned wider. “Oh yes.”

And with that, he cut the cake in half. One piece for him. One piece for Billy.

Billy stared at his half—a towering monstrosity of frosting and regret.

Michael dug in, chocolate smeared on his cheeks. “Welcome to the family, cousin.”

Billy swallowed hard.

He was so screwed.

Billy stared at the towering slab of cake in front of him, the sheer weight of it pressing down on his soul. The frosting glistened under the dim kitchen light, thick and glossy, like a chocolate crime scene waiting to happen. Michael was already halfway through his half, shoveling bites into his mouth with the urgency of a man on death row eating his last meal.

Billy swallowed hard. “I, uh… I really don’t think I can—”

Michael stopped mid-bite, leveling Billy with a look that was both amused and vaguely offended. “Boy.”

Billy froze.

Michael wiped a smear of chocolate from his beard with the back of his hand and leaned forward, making the old wooden chair groan beneath him. “I dunno how they do things up in Colorado, but down here, we eat. Keatons ain’t just a family, we a damn dynasty. And if you gon’ be a Keaton, you gotta start lookin’ like one.” He gestured at Billy’s lanky frame with his fork. “Ain’t no one gonna believe you got Keaton blood runnin’ through them scrawny veins ’til you put some proper heft on ya.”

Billy blinked. “Heft?”

Michael pointed to himself, as if his very existence was proof of concept. “Heft. A man oughta have some presence. Some substance. You ever seen a king lookin’ like a damn broomstick?”

Billy hesitated. “I mean, historically—”

Michael waved him off. “That’s history. This is now. And right now, you look like you’d blow away in a strong wind. That ain’t gonna cut it in the bayou.”

Billy stared at the cake. The air in the kitchen was thick with the smell of sugar, butter, and Michael’s unwavering expectation. His stomach groaned in protest, already stretched past what he thought were its limits.

Michael stabbed another bite of cake and pointed his fork at Billy like a preacher delivering a sermon. “A real Keaton don’t tap out. A real Keaton finishes his damn plate.”

Billy exhaled slowly. His hands felt heavy as he picked up his fork, the tines sinking into the impossibly dense cake like it was made of cement.

Michael grinned. “That’s the spirit, cousin.”

Billy took a bite. It was rich, decadent, overwhelming. The chocolate melted across his tongue, almost sickeningly sweet, but he forced himself to chew, to swallow.

Michael beamed. “There ya go! Now do that about fifty more times.”

Billy wanted to die.

Billy was struggling. Each bite of cake felt heavier than the last, like his fork was made of lead and the chocolate was expanding in his stomach with every chew. His body had long since sent the distress signals—abort mission, system overload, critical mass approaching—but Michael’s eyes were still locked on him, gleaming with amusement and expectation.

Across the table, Michael leaned back, satisfied, his half of the cake completely annihilated. He licked frosting from his fingers, smacking his lips like a man who had just conquered something.

Billy, meanwhile, had barely made it halfway through his own.

Michael sighed, shaking his head. “Boy, I swear, watchin’ you eat is like watchin’ a tortoise try to cross a highway. Painful.”

Billy, cheeks full, tried to glare at him. It was difficult to look menacing when you were on the verge of passing out from cake exhaustion.

Michael cracked his knuckles and pushed his chair back. The wood groaned violently, as if begging for mercy. Then, with a grunt, he heaved himself up. The very floorboards seemed to shudder beneath his weight.

Billy paused, fork in midair. “…What are you doing?”

Michael stretched, rolling his shoulders. “I’m takin’ over.”

Billy’s stomach dropped. “What?”

Before he could react, Michael was looming over him. The sheer size of him was overwhelming up close—the way his belly hung over his belt, the scent of sugar and sweat clinging to his skin. His hand, massive and meaty, reached down, grabbed Billy’s fork like a parent feeding a stubborn toddler, and scooped up an ungodly amount of cake.

Billy’s eyes widened. “Wait—”

Michael shoved the bite straight into Billy’s mouth.

Billy gagged, barely managing to chew before another forkful was coming at him.

“That’s it, open up,” Michael cooed, mockingly gentle. “Ain’t no cousin of mine gonna be a picky eater.”

Billy tried to protest, but his words were lost in the chocolate avalanche.

“See, this is how a real Keaton eats,” Michael said, grinning as he stuffed another oversized bite between Billy’s lips. “Fast, efficient—like a man.”

Billy groaned, cheeks bulging, stomach aching.

Michael chuckled. “Boy, you strugglin’ like a fish outta water. Ain’t you ever been properly fed before?”

Billy whimpered.

Michael just laughed, shoveling in another bite. “We gon’ fix that, cousin. We gon’ fix that real good.”

The next morning rolled in slow and syrupy, with a thick fog slinking across the bayou like it was looking for secrets. The cypress trees stretched tall and proud, moss draped from their branches like old lace, and dragonflies zipped lazily over the glassy water. The air smelled like wet wood, pond lilies, and the faintest hint of something fried. Somewhere nearby, a bullfrog belched a single note, long and low, like a warning or a prayer.

Billy woke up face-down on the couch, feeling like he’d been hit by a gravy truck. His stomach groaned like an old man getting out of bed, and his limbs ached with the slow, pulsing pain of overindulgence. His tongue was dry, thick with the ghost of chocolate, and his jeans—God help him—felt tighter.

He sat up, instantly regretting it. The room was a warzone. Empty plates, crumpled napkins, and a half-eaten Big Mac teetered on the edge of the coffee table. Michael’s recliner was empty, but his presence still lingered in the air like smoke.

Billy rubbed his face and stood up slowly, wobbling like a baby deer. His legs weren’t used to carrying this much weight, and he swore he could feel every single calorie fighting for territory inside him.

The kitchen was alive with noise—pots clanging, the sizzle of bacon, and Michael’s voice humming along to a country song on the radio. Billy followed the sound, one hand on his aching stomach.

Michael stood barefoot in the kitchen, shirtless, of course, with his overalls half-on and a dishrag slung over his shoulder like he was running a roadside diner. His hair was damp with sweat, and his armpits glistened in the soft morning light.

“Well, look who finally decided to wake up,” he hollered without turning around. “I thought you done died in there.”

Billy squinted. “What time is it?”

“Time don’t matter in the bayou, boy. We got three parts of the day down here: before food, eatin’, and nappin’. Right now, we in the first part. You hungry?”

Billy’s stomach gave a cautious rumble. “I—no. No, I really don’t think I can eat anything.”

Michael turned around, spatula in one hand, eyebrow raised like he’d just been personally insulted. “That’s quitter talk.”

“I’m still full from last night,” Billy said, leaning against the doorway like it might support him through the pain. “I think I might actually die if I eat more.”

Michael barked out a laugh and pointed the spatula at him like a weapon. “You say that now, but wait ’til you get a whiff of this bacon. Cured it myself. Brown sugar, cayenne, bit of maple syrup. Sweet and spicy, like my third ex-wife.”

Billy shook his head. “I can’t, man. Seriously.”

Michael clicked his tongue. “That stomach of yours just ain’t stretched proper yet. Give it time. We’ll break it in like a new pair of boots.”

Billy groaned and dropped into a kitchen chair. “Why does it feel like you’re trying to turn me into a balloon?”

Michael flipped a pancake the size of a hubcap. “Because you too damn skinny, that’s why. Keatons don’t do skinny. We built like trucks. Big, loud, and full of gas.”

Billy rubbed his temples. “This isn’t normal.”

Michael grinned, laying a plate down in front of him that was stacked high with biscuits smothered in sausage gravy. “Ain’t tryin’ to be normal. Tryin’ to be Southern.”

Billy looked at the plate. It was beautiful in a terrifying way—layers of golden biscuit, thick with crumbles of sausage, all drowning in creamy white gravy that smelled like comfort and poor decisions.

He stared at it for a long moment. “You know I’m not staying forever, right?”

Michael shrugged, stuffing a strip of bacon into his mouth. “You say that now, but this here’s a one-way street. Bayou’s like molasses—you don’t run through it. You sink in slow.”

Billy sighed. “I came here because I had nowhere else to go.”

Michael finally slowed, looked at him, chewed a bit slower. “I know.”

There was a long pause, the kind that settles in like dust.

Billy’s voice was quieter. “After the accident, I didn’t… I didn’t have a plan. Everything just kinda stopped. I didn’t even think about coming here until Aunt Mae said you still lived out this way.”

Michael nodded. “I remember when it happened. Mama called me cryin’. Said you was up there all alone. I told her, ‘Hell no. He got a place here. He family.’”

Billy looked up. “You didn’t even hesitate?”

Michael tilted his head like the question was ridiculous. “Course not. You blood. We Keatons might be loud, messy, and smell like smoked meat most days, but we don’t leave ours hangin’. You needed a place? You got one. Simple as that.”

Billy swallowed hard, emotion caught somewhere between his throat and his chest.

Michael leaned back against the counter and folded his arms, his belly resting like a loyal dog. “You ain’t gotta explain nothin’ to me. Folks die. Life screws ya over. But down here, we take care of our own.”

Billy nodded slowly. The kitchen was quiet except for the soft sizzle of breakfast and the drone of insects outside.

“You gon’ be alright,” Michael said, voice softer than usual. “We’ll fatten you up, get some meat on those bones, teach you how to fish, how to gut a gator, how to sleep through a thunderstorm with a belly full’a cornbread. Give it a week, you’ll be speakin’ with a drawl and sweatin’ bacon grease just like the rest of us.”

Billy smirked. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”

Michael chuckled. “Down here, that’s what love sounds like.”

They ate in silence for a bit, Billy picking at the plate, his body protesting but his heart easing. Outside, the bayou shimmered under the rising sun, birds flitting across the water, and the world felt still—humid, sticky, and slow, but still.

Later that afternoon, they sat out on the porch, the swing creaking under their combined weight. Michael drank sweet tea out of a mason jar and Billy nursed a stomachache the size of Louisiana. The air buzzed with cicadas and smelled like wildflowers and catfish bait.

“Hey,” Michael said suddenly, slapping Billy’s knee hard enough to jostle his soul, “you ever ride a fan boat?”

Billy blinked. “What?”

Michael stood up, his overalls struggling to keep up. “C’mon. I got one out back. Nothin’ gets the appetite goin’ like a trip through the swamp.”

Billy moaned. “God help me.”

Michael grinned. “No, but I will.”

And just like that, Billy was dragged into another round of the Keaton lifestyle: part hospitality, part torture, all heart.

The bayou didn’t judge. It just watched, slow and quiet, like it knew Billy was in for the long haul.