Once that is done they all stand breathing through their nose like spent horses. Their cigarettes appear and are lit and they stand still. Simon realizes how much noise they’ve made: their stamping and splashing, the pulling of rope and rustle of clothes, all of it reaching out over the river. Now, as they stand still, Simon feels small against the night. They finish their cigarettes in the hush and flick them like tracers into the river. They turn, one following the other, pick their shoes off the truck and shuck their waders and boots in a pile on the dew-wet ground. When they are finished Ned lifts them into the bed of the truck and rolls the spare tire back over them. They get in the truck as Boo kicks it to coughing life.

They turn on the radio, though they don’t talk or joke. When they pull onto the service road Ned takes out a bottle of Jim Beam he’d stashed under the seat and passes it along the row of silent men like a water bucket at a brush fire. Simon drinks and passes it on. It comes back and he drinks again. The trees fly by ranked and filed, old Forest Service plantings. They grow straight as pool cues and the tops are lost in the night. The men keep drinking and the cab grows warm. Boo punches the radio dial and country music smokes through the cab. The truck hits the highway, growls once as Boo floors it, and flies down the darkened tar.

Back at housing they shed their outer clothing, smelling of river fog and smoke, steaming in the glow of house lights. Chairs are turned back in and they sit split-legged and rocking. They finish the bottle of Beam and Boo jumps up and starts slamming cupboard doors and rattling pans.

“Gonna make some fishin grub,” he states to no one as he whips a spoonful of bacon grease into the frying pan. The burner puffs on and he bends over and in the fridge light he starts to hand out eggs and bacon.

Betty shuffles out of the bedroom in a tattered blue robe. She doesn’t acknowledge the men sitting at the table. Even though she doesn’t look at him Simon balls himself up a little smaller and tries to cough in his rolled hand without a sound. She yawns and nods her head. She turns the radio on and lights a cigarette.

“Jesus,” says Boo turning around from the refrigerator as he kicks it shut with his heel. “I didn’t know you were up.”

“I wasn’t,” she says through a lungful of smoke.

“Well,” Boo plows on, “since you are, you hungry?”

“I ain’t gonna chance it with you cooking drunk. Most likely wind up gettin my stomach pumped at IHS.”

“Whatever,” he says cheerfully as he holds two eggs in each hand and cracks all four into the pan.