Billy James Henry Billy James Henry told me this island was made of fallen angels. “I could show you right now,” he said. Nodded toward the mountain. He could show me everything. Latin in the shells. Giants in the trees. “Fallen angels in the very spot you’re standing, yessir.” He’d seen it all. Half his head was shaved. Greased wisps of hair ponied up, a tight sheen. He peered over his shades, eyebrows raised, like a presiding judge. Billy James went into his truck and brought over a bag of jumbo cottage cheese. Showed me a moonstone he found.