In a purgatory at the banks of the Hiwasee River in southeastern
Tennessee, two teenagers -- the garrulous John Stone and the young Jenny
Evenene -- barrel through an endless night in a Firebird Trans Am. Jenny
wakes each morning, the same morning, and chronicles the events of her
final day, her memory reaching back into the recesses of mythical time,
recollecting cosmogonies, eschatologies, and metamorphoses that mingle
with the details of her violent end. As the two heroes drive through the
night, drinking cold American beer and listening to the soothing tunes
of the country music station, the dramatis personae of the process of
decomposition encroach upon them from the darkness beyond the
headlights: the turkey vultures that soar above them, baited by decaying
corpses, are at once the successors of the sacred buzzard whose talons
first massaged the earth into being and the double of the screaming
chicken emblazoned on the hood of the Firebird, which is itself at once
the illustrious automobile of teenage dreams, vehicle of transmigrating
souls, and ancient phoenix, millennial sigil of the sun, of biochemical
resurrections, and Heraclitean thunderbolt who steers all things.