Free The Man Who Ivented Florida by Randy Wayne White

they had died; that there was a great plan, a great order to the earth, and that their people, the ancient ones, would one day regain the coast they had once ruled.
    But, one by one, as he grew older, Joseph saw the legends collapse beneath the weight of his own worldliness. He realized, in time, his grandfather was just another Indian drunk destined to die in an Immokalee flophouse, an empty wine bottle at his side. He learned that most people, no matter what color, stopped fighting long before their last heartbeat. Finally, he came to understand that the land called Florida would be inherited by those who cared least about it: the concrete merchants and tourists and out-of-state rich people. His loss of faith had long been an emptiness in him, but Joseph was also well grounded in the vagaries of existence: Life was scary enough to make a sled dog shiver, and a man had to get along as best he could.
    But now one of the legends had come true: the story of the living water—a spring once sought by the Indian sick to heal themselves. Did he really believe that? Yes . . . no!. . . maybe.
    Tuck was a con man; about that, there was no doubt. So why, Joseph wondered, did his own mind feel so much clearer after drinking the water? Why did his body feel so much better? He stood in the shadows, leaning against the tree, considering. Before him were expensive ranch-style homes, concrete and stucco, with neat lawns and palm trees potted on little cement islands. In the eastern sky, clouds throbbed with eerie light, as if a bright wind was trapped within, probing for escape. Ghostly looking shapes up there in the night sky, so strange and unfamiliar that a disconcerting sense of doom flitted through Joseph's mind . . . which was when he remembered the dream he'd had.
    You telling me to go ahead and die, Grandpa!
    Nope. Tellin' you to get in the damn car. You already dead.
    It all came back to him, the whole strange dream. Not a happy realization, either, because Joseph knew the dream for what it was.
    Damn death dreams. Always come when a man's got other stuff to worry about.
    Yes, no doubt about it. He had had a death dream.
    "Some joke, Grandpa!"
    Joseph sagged against the tree. He was going to die. Dreams like that didn't beat around the bush. Came right out and said what they meant. Hey . . . wait a minute. Joseph straightened as a new thought entered his head. In his mind, he tallied the feelings he had experienced in the last hour: unexpected freedom, absence of pain, soaring intoxication. Plus, that orderly had looked right at him without seeing him, as if he were invisible. Same with the fat nurse. Didn't even notice him.
    Maybe I'm already dead!
    "Oh shit," Joseph whispered.
    Maybe he hadn't left the rest home, after all. Maybe this was all just a hallucination. Maybe, just maybe, he really had died and now his spirit was soaring.
    Joseph bounced up and down on the ground a little. Don't feel like I'm soaring.
    He thought about one of the few movies he had ever seen. In that film, a man got hit by a car. When he awoke, he was standing in line to board a train. His name was on the passenger list, but the man couldn't remember why he was there. But he found out. That man was on his way to heaven! Then another thought struck Joseph: If a train took you to heaven, maybe you had to walk to hell.
    Quickly, he pinched himself. Ouch. It hurt, but was that proof?
    No. Hadn't the man in that movie kicked over a trash can and hurt his foot? Maybe they let you keep all your physical feelings— except the sinful ones, of course.
    There, that was an idea.
    Joseph made a cursory check through his brain for dirty thoughts.
    Nope, they were still there.
    That did it; told him all he needed to know. He wasn't bound for heaven; he was on a one-way trip to hell.
    Just about exactly what you deserve, you dirty man. . . .
    The back door of the house near which he stood opened, startling him. He heard a voice say, "You stay in the yard now,