That afternoon he went fishing with his neighbour. Jackbird was short for fifteen, even shorter than Ned, with a habit of fidgeting. They’d been neighbours their whole lives, and outside summer they shared a class at school. Ned had once dragged Jackbird from a rip current and squeezed the ocean out of his skinny chest. A year later Jackbird had pelted a rock into the cheek of an older boy who’d thrown Ned to the ground in the schoolyard. Dashed a wet hole in the flesh that whistled whenever the boy breathed, until it healed a couple of weeks later.

They fished from a jetty that pushed out into the river. Ned held a finger on his line, feeling for the tremor of a bite that did not come. Perhaps the day was too clear, the sun too bright. Bill had once said fish didn’t feed in good weather, and Bill was the best fisherman he knew. It was something to do with wind stirring them into action, or rain flooding oxygen into the saltwater, or that direct sunlight made them sluggish. Ned tried to remember, but he’d only ever overheard Bill saying these things to Maggie, or maybe Toby.

Jackbird flicked a thumb against his line. ‘Any bites?’

‘Not a nibble.’

Jackbird kept fiddling with his rod, lifting and dropping his sinker, trailing it across the bottom. He checked his bait. It hung firm on the hook.

‘Be better with a boat.’

Ned flinched. ‘Where would we get a boat?’

‘Just saying. Better with a boat.’

‘Course it’d be better with a boat. But we don’t have a boat. And unless you know something I don’t, that isn’t going to change.’ His voice was flat, even as his blood thumped.

They were quiet for a while after that. Ned hadn’t wanted to think of boats. He remembered his father’s fingers, roaming through the fur. His brothers. He was angry that Jackbird had mentioned it, wished his friend would be content with what they had, with this sunny, windless day.

Jackbird reeled his line in again. ‘You heard from Toby?’

‘Not for a while. He should still be in the reserve force. They’re only meant to be sent in if things get worse.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Jackbird cast out, let his sinker drop. ‘Reckon we’ll get called up?’

‘Papers say it’s winding down.’

‘True.’ He raised his rod to his shoulder. Held it like a rifle, aiming at a cluster of yachts that were tethered to buoys just off the shore. ‘What about Bill?’

Ned was watching Jackbird’s line tangle. ‘What about him?’

‘Anything in the paper about his division?’

‘Not since Singapore fell.’

‘Any letters?’

‘Not that I know of.’

Jackbird jerked his rod, swung his feet.

Ned saw the hesitation in him. ‘If you’re going to say something, say it.’