He walks away from me down the path, but his word carries back: “Egret.”

Right. Big white bird. I follow. “I wasn’t sure if he was real at first.”

“They’re good at that.” Kincaid stops beside his board and a woven Baja backpack left in the weeds. “Hold so still that the fish think they’re safe, swimming around a couple of tall reeds, not a pair of predator legs. They’re going, ‘Doo-doo-doo, it’s a normal day, eating shit smaller than we are,’ then”—with a snarl, whips his fingers down, cupped into a beak—“instant death. Nature’s cruel balancing act.” He gives this little laugh in the back of his throat.

I watch as he takes a box of cold meds and a nearly empty bottle of soda from his bag, washing a couple capsules down. There’s more than congestion affecting the way he talks, though. It’s like he had a speech impediment as a kid, one he had to go to therapy for, one they could never quite break him of. A tendency to cluster words together, cram them into a space where they scarcely fit. “What’re you doing out here?” All laughter is gone from my voice.

He shrugs. “Good a place as any.”

“Plenty better.”

“Not if you want some space. This whole marsh is a preserve. Over three hundred acres.”

“Just you, the egrets, and Dabney Kirk’s severed head.” I’m not imagining how his eyes light up, smile creeping back.

“You know about that?”

“Your buddy—El Chupapudding—made sure I found out today.”

Kincaid laughs, rocking back on his heels. “Damn, I missed pudding day? They didn’t have the Friday French bread pizza, too, did they? That’s, like, all wet?”

“Today’s Tuesday.”

He considers this, thoughtful again. “They brought dogs in. Nobody could find her. How far could a head really roll?”

“Now there’s a PSAT question. If a logging truck is traveling southeast at forty-five miles per hour, and a head is traveling northwest . . .” He looks back, maybe amused, maybe tolerant, not giving me much. Not letting me in on the joke. Again. “You don’t think it was an accident.”

“I think he took her with him. I think Dabney Kirk is hanging in the Mumbler’s trophy room right now. He’s got armchair, fireplace, Dabney’s head.”

I watch him, biting the inside of my cheek, fists tucked inside my sleeves. “You can stop now. Okay? I’m sufficiently pranked.” Nothing. “I’m new, so you guys think you need to break me in or something, right? But you’re never going to sell me on this boogeyman stuff.”

He straightens, shoulders his bag, hooks his fingers under his board’s truck. “That’s what you think? That I’m being, like, mean to you?” He considers the concept before shaking his head, totally unoffended. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Then . . . ?” I lift my shoulders.