“I run a courier service,” the client said, but stopped there. Brad sensed a reluctance to talk, period. That impression was reinforced when the man removed an area map from his coat pocket, spread it over his knees, and asked Brad to tell him about the flow and structure of the White River, the hidden creeks and tributaries and enclaves where wild trout thrived. That was Brad’s opening to express his concern of the huge snow base that had ripped into spring. They might find the trout nonexistent and the water levels dangerous, he warned. Colorado’s flood engineers were predicting the northern part of the state could experience the highest and swiftest flows in years and were urging anglers to take extra precautions on riverbanks and in supercharged currents.

“Warning taken,” his client said and went back to the silent study of his maps. Brad shrugged. Be it on his head what might befall, he thought, wondering at the man’s reticence. He couldn’t have cared either way whether the man engaged in conversation, and silence on the river was a virtue of the true fly-fisherman.

They were almost to Meeker’s city limits when Brad heard an embarrassing thump, thump, thump, and the right front of his truck began to list. Alistair Renault broke his absorption in his map to state the unnecessary: “Er, I believe you have a flat tire, Mr. Hudson.”

“Verdammt!” Brad swore. He had a spare in True Blue, but the rubber was paper-thin. He’d purchased a good used Michelin with some of the first money from his emergency jar but didn’t dare carry it in his truck for fear of theft. Rubber tires were hard to come by now and cost the earth besides. The tire was safely locked in his garage at home. To change the flat, Brad had to trust his threadbare spare to get them to the hotel or take a detour to his house, which wasn’t far away.

“Mr. Renault,” he asked, “how weary are you?”

Bobby was collecting firewood from the porch when the truck limped up. He spied the problem at once and set down the firewood to offer assistance. Brad said, “You can stay in the truck, sir, unless you’d like to come in by the fire and have a cup of coffee, but this won’t take long.” He hoped the man declined. His presence would be an intrusion. The girls would be doing their homework and his mother getting supper. Jared Cramer was to come by later in the evening.

Alistair released his voice. “That coffee and fire sound good,” he said. “I’ll take you up on it.”