Cry Baby Bridge

Across the American South and Midwest, dozens of bridges carry the same story: a mother and her infant died there, by accident or worse, and on a quiet night you can still hear the baby cry, or feel small hands on your car. Park on the bridge, cut the engine, and wait. The details shift from county to county; the shape of the tale does not.

Cry Baby Bridge is less one place than a pattern, a grief that attaches itself to crossings everywhere. O Devil, Where Art Thou? gives the crying bridge a song.