“But Dad said I’d hit her pretty hard three times and that even a goose would tire out and die so we kept closing in on her. It was almost pitch-black and every time we drew near she’d dive again. Our arms were numb from sprinting behind the oars and stopping and sprinting again. Dad’s breath was coming out raspy and my brother’s hands kept slipping from the oar and it fell in the water and jerked the boat around and Dad yelled at him and coughed. We kept getting closer. We moved up to about four feet away and then she’d dive but without the shells four feet could’ve been forty yards. I threw one of the extra paddles at her before she could dive and it hit her square on the neck but she just dove anyway and it was as dark as it’d get and we couldn’t see her anymore. So we stopped and we were all breathing hard. We heard her paddling and saw some ripples. But we had to pack it in and get the decoys and we never found her.”

The man scans the room: the food steaming dankly in the flickering fluorescent light, the card players, Simon, the still-sleeping drunk. He nods to himself, lies back down, and puts the magazine over his face. He starts snoring in a few minutes.

Simon eases back on his bunk, a classic holding-cell pose: his arms under his head, his eyes searching the piss-stained mattress above him. Betty and Lincoln are up north. He never visited them or the house after he got out, except to tear it down, and now, he thinks, maybe I should have. Maybe that wouldn’t have been so bad. They’ve been gone since last May. Lincoln must be in school on the reservation. Big changes, chances everywhere to fuck it up.

After a while the rest take to their bunks and with the light still flickering, they close their eyes and go to sleep. Simon can hear, faintly, the hit of hard-soled shoes, the rasp of metal, and the jingle of keys, like bells, in the cemented distance.

The next morning at his arraignment, Simon shifts uneasily in his crumpled and bloody clothes. In the clean courtroom he can smell the goose shit on his shoes and pants, the cigarette smoke clinging to his jacket.

The judge sits leaning forward, his arms stick out from the black robes like sticks. He cocks his head when the clerk reads Simon’s case from the docket. When the clerk finishes the judge remains leaning forward, looking at his clasped hands. Simon sways back and forth in his torn and bloody clothing.

“Before we jump in, you’ve a right to counsel, or you can waive your rights. You’re being charged with poaching and disorderly conduct. You understand that?” He pushes his glasses from the crease in his nose.