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Prologue: Our Story They say Murphy Quarters was born out of hard times and bad deals, but that ain't the whole truth. This place-our Hill-was carved out of sweat, stubbornness, and a little bit of sin. Folks came here because they had nowhere else to go, and once they got here, they stayed because leaving meant starting over in a world that didn't want us free, didn't want us whole. I was just a boy when I learned the Hill never sleeps. Even in the dead of night, you could hear the hum of life-dice hitting the pavement, whispers of deals in the shadows, the low moan of a blues guitar drifting from somebody's porch. It was a rhythm, steady and dangerous, like a heartbeat that refused to quit. Jim Crow was supposed to be dead by '65, but don't let nobody fool you. His ghost was alive and well in Jesup, Georgia. You could feel him in the way white folks looked at you when you walked downtown, in the way the law came down harder on us than anybody else. Murphy Quarters was our refuge, but it was also our cage. We built our own rules because theirs were never meant for us. My daddy, Buck Wilkerson, believed in two things: family and power. Trouble is, he never figured out how to keep one without losing the other. And my uncle MJ-well, MJ believed in freedom, even if it cost him everything. Between the two of them, they turned Murphy Quarters into a battleground. Blood was spilled, money was made, and the Hill kept on humming like nothing happened. I'm Dennis Wilkerson, youngest son of Buck, and this is the story of how the Hill shaped us-how it broke us, saved us, and damned us all at the same time. If you listen close, you'll hear the truth in these streets. But don't expect it to be pretty. The Hill never sleeps, and neither do its ghosts.

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