I figured I was heading for the stretch of water known as the still river place. There’d been trouble there before, near drownings, kid dares. I should have known a drowning was coming. All the signs were there. Summer refused to leave the Flathead like it was waiting to take someone with it. There hadn’t been a drowning on the reservation in years. Summer was promising to stay. The cool river was calling. I fixed it in my mind that I was headed to the drowning of a child, a difficult day growing worse. I felt strangely relieved. I wouldn’t have to think about Aida and I would have a rest from thoughts of Louise.

The sky had turned yellow with heat. I saw Bradlock standing by the highway and he lifted his hands up over his head, surrendered. I parked my car off the shoulder, pulling a fog of dust. Bradlock looked out of place in the tall grass, his baggy gray suit stained charcoal with sweat, his cocky brimmed hat. I had to look away from him. When I got out of the patrol car I felt an odd swoosh of coldness just over my head that chilled me.

I thought about the many hours I’d spent walking the river line. I’d walked this river in winter, fall, and summer, knowing where the marsh grass pooled to sucking mud. I knew each big rock like the highway markers, knew where the fat trout slept in lazy currents, knew where arm-length pike leaped for flies with sure snapping teeth. I didn’t look at the folks gathered by the river at first. It’s what I loved and hated about small-town living, everyone had license to be a rubberneck. I stood beside Bradlock, staring at the smooth dead eye of a crosscurrent and feeling the quivering bend in my knees. I went to the back of the cruiser to retrieve the dragline. Bradlock followed me around. “I think they’ve got other plans,” he said, but I ignored him. I had work to do and I wasn’t about to let Bradlock interfere. I slung the equipment over my shoulder.