“Good luck, Tracy!” “Surprise, Tracy!” What a fucking joke, Tracy thinks to herself. From bumfuck nowhere to hillbilly central. How’d an aspiring Pulitzer-caliber writer end up stuck with these cryptid-fawning tabloids. None of this work is going to garner any recognition (with sane people, at least). If Harvest didn’t make her true believer, nothing on the planet would — certainly not some backwater mountain town known for its “healing” waters. What a joke, Tracy thinks as she finishes taping down the last cardboard box.