Hey, y'all. Van here. I know it's been a while. I've done a lot of living in these past

three years, and I'm sure you have too. Since we made flood lines, a lot about the world

has changed. There's a whole pandemic thing for one. There was an election and a whole insurrection.

There have been protests and a racial reckoning. We've gained and we've lost. Things, people,

ways of being. That's how it goes, I guess. One of the people we lost here on the flood lines

team was Miles Poidress. He was a fellow here at the Atlantic for a while. He was from New Orleans,

and without his fact-checking, script guidance, and listening here, we wouldn't have had the show we

had. He passed away in September 2022. He was 25 years old. Miles was a prolific and brilliant

writer. He was a kind and generous friend. And even though I was supposed to be his mentor,

he taught me as much as he learned. He had an empathy and wisdom beyond his years. Hell, beyond

anybody's years. When he first came to work for us, when we were talking about maybe doing a

podcast about Hurricane Katrina, he wrote this, quote, oftentimes, the bit of solace that comforts me,

sitting isolated in places where the trace of humans of nature is less noticeable. There,

the vitality of the soil still seemed present. And much like my experience is in the swamp,

the buzzing of the natural feels life-giving. Looking over the horizon of swallowed land and

mossy trees, I can reimagine history. I can draw my own maps and let the waters run wild.

Water is my redeeming ethos because it is the last thing humans can control.

Miles was proud to work here. His mama was proud that he worked here. We were proud to work with him.

I decided that whenever I finally made a new show, whenever we re-rededicated ourselves to

re-imagining history, that we would dedicate the show to Miles. And now, that time is here.

You can check out our trailer for our new show, Holy Week, right here. This is from Miles,

Rest in Peace, brother.

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