Ned and Jumbo have already popped open the passenger door and spill out into the night, stretching and walking knee-deep in river fog to the tailgate. Simon slides over the ripped vinyl seat patched with duct tape and steps into the cold. He tosses his spent cigarette into the brown grass. His breath comes out in puffs and rises away into the windless sky, away from the ground fog that hangs in a level shelf over the river. He walks to the back of the truck and stands with his hands in his pockets as Boo and Ned lift the galvanized tin washtub from the bed and walk it to the edge of the river. They set it down with a thump. The metal handles clang on the sides as they let go, sending a sliver of sound into the hush of the river’s progress, banging faintly from the far shore. They walk to the truck and lift the rusted chrome door handles and the doors spring open with a pop, metallic sounds out of place in the trees and brush, at odds with the liquid surge of the river, high on its April banks. Simon stands with his hands thrust away from the chill, leaning against the rear quarter panel of the truck. The others stamp their feet and look toward Boo and Ned as they rummage in the glove box and behind the seat for flashlights.

“They runnin?” asks Jumbo as he tucks his jeans into his socks.