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It is an oxbow lake cut off from the Mississippi River, and represents a large-scale modern analogue to the ancient systems of northeastern Alberta, Canada, specifically those of the Athabasca Oils Sands. While previous work has been done regarding the general architecture of a point bar, there is still omplexity associated with larger scale systems, as studies have been mostly based on small and medium-scale examples.

Examination of the point bar was done through a combination of coring and geophysical logging, followed by software analysis of the logs in order to identify facies pack ages and trends within three different areas of the bar early upstream apex, late stage near apex, and downstream late simple bar stage to late compound bar stage. Three facies packages were interpreted: Top bar, interbedded heterolithic strata, and high-net facies sand-rich.

Although early to late stage simple bar growth demonstrated predictable facies stacking trends, facies related late stage compound bar growth and active abandonment from the main river channel were unpredictable based on small-scale simple models. Permeability differences within sand-rich packages also decreased in the downstream end of the bar, demonstrating a difference in sand quality within seemingly identical facies packages which has previously been overlooked.

LSU Master's Theses. Nobody ever sees anything. And if they do, they never tell the po-lis. I got a few more orders — only pick five or six of the most valuable bottles; make sure I covered my tracks — but then I told Greta I had to go. My meeting, I said, meaning the funeral, was about to begin.

Rich gave me my first real job in the oil business, and was generous about helping other people move up and out, so there were at least a hundred mourners eddying in and out, doing a bad job of keeping their voices down. Rich was a big guy whose mouth always seemed full of fried oysters or hot dogs drowning in chilli.

The carved wooden jewel-box of his ashes looked all wrong, mean and fancy at the same time, the opposite of Rich. It was even worse once we were ushered to the mausoleum area, to stand around a shiny slab on the wall. This slab was the door to a tiny vault where the box of ashes would be hidden away. The gleaming wall with all its hidden doors reminded me of a fitted kitchen.

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He was still as spidery as a skinny kid, even though he had to be thirty-two, maybe thirty-three. But these days his hair was sparse and fluffy at the front, and though his arms were matchsticks, a little belly stuck out over his belt.

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In his foodstained white shirt and black pants, he looked like an off-duty waiter. Last time I heard, Jimmy was living in Alexandria, for no particular reason, selling coffee at the concession in Books-A-Million. Jimmy carried clouds around with him, his brother once told me, the way kids carry balloons.

Michael was my age, and we used to share a ride to Menard, our high school in Alexandria. Big case, something to do with the prison.

False River remains swollen and causing concern for some residents

Or the hospital, maybe. Anyway, Jimmy was already on another topic. He was in the city to do some research, he said. This was Jimmy all over. He was always doing some kind of research, but nobody ever knew why, and nothing seemed to come of it. Obsessions took hold of him, and he had to pursue them, and to talk about them until everybody was sick of hearing it. His latest passion, he told me, was Henry Morton Stanley, the explorer. So he changed his name. Henry, for example. Did you know that Stanley fought for both sides during the Civil War? I wondered why Stanley, the name-changing explorer, had chosen to fight for both sides.

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The judge stepped away from the flowers, and an official-looking woman dressed in navy blue took over, pointing to the exits. I have to be home first thing in the morning. Jimmy shook his head, squinting up at the stained-glass window as though the weak show of sunlight annoyed him. Tomorrow I had a meeting in Lake Charles — a real meeting, and the reason I was driving on this trip rather than flying.

Tonight I could drive to Marksville and surprise my mother. My mother never told Greta anything any more.

People around us were walking away, complaining about being dismissed. She kept the fur shrug on, even though the day was humid and not even slightly autumnal. Make it worth the effort. When we were young, I used to tell him to quit making his strange noises, but now we were all peers, more or less. In the trunk I dug out the flashlight and the jack.

Jimmy cracked open his door. To get there I had to navigate an obstacle course of upside-down plastic lawn furniture, rotten with mould spots, and a mountain range of tree roots that had forced its way up through the cracked paving stones. But all it took to prise open the screen door was my penknife; the lever on the car jack got me through the back door and into what passed for a basement in New Orleans, a concrete floor spotted with roach carcasses, and the skeleton of framed internal walls that Al had stripped bare after Katrina.

The washer and dryer were down here, and dusty plastic tubs jammed with bags of beads, relics from the days when Bertie rode with Thoth: he never threw it all, and everyone always nagged him about buying so much every year. He never had the air turned up high enough. On my way in, I made a mess of the door at the top of the stairs, smashing and splintering a hole so I could turn the handle. The dining table and chairs were gone, something that would enrage Greta, and the wall of the front parlour was a blank of sallow rectangles, where paintings of doughy, dark-eyed Creoles used to hang.

The silver-plate was missing from the credenza. Either Al and Christa had been pillaging, or Bertie had transported his stash to Florida. The former, I decided, when I checked in the final place, the old laundry chute in the bathroom. Al would never think to look here for wine; he was devious, but not as devious as his father or sister.

So there were still four bottles in there, something to brandish, like spoils of war, on my return to Houston.

A Pichon Lalande that I half remembered Bertie showing me once. The oldest was a La Mission Haut-Brion. They may have been worth a few hundred each, or maybe a lot more.

False River remains swollen and causing concern for some residents

Greta could have the fun of researching and tallying, of relishing the secret triumph over her brother and his wife. She would never drink the bottles of wine, and I doubted she would even sell them. The secret triumph would be enough. I grabbed a six-pack of beer from the fridge as well, mainly to annoy Al, and let myself out through the front door.

Back at the car, I slid the bagged wine into the back seat, next to Jimmy and my folded suit jacket, and offered him a beer. I told him that she did, in Houston, but all of this — the death, the demand — had gone down today, when I was already here. We were driving between stop signs on Napoleon at high speed, because all I wanted now was to get out of town. In the rear-view mirror I spied him squirming and flinching in the back seat as though some bug was dive-bombing his face.

She always pushed her seat right back and took her shoes off when she got in my car. Anything I heard about her these days was through Michael. She had boyfriends rather than husbands; she lived downtown. When she started working at the Historic New Orleans Collection, office rules dictated that women wore skirts and pantyhose, but Thea insisted that the rules be changed.

They moved it to Coliseum Street. She opened the beer and placed it in my cup-holder, twisting the can so I could pick it up and drink.

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He sat clutching the bag of wine the way he used to hold on to a cushion when he sat watching TV. The only sound that came from the back seat was the clank of the beer can hitting his teeth. At False River there was the turn before New Roads, then Morganza, Simmesport, and another river to cross, the Atchafalaya, with Avoyelles Parish waiting, poor and hot and dozy, on the other side.