Before dawn, Colette showered, pulled on a pair of jeans and a denim shirt, gathered a few things into a picnic basket, then drove out the shell road north of town. Under the new sun the single lane ran like a silver snake along the grassy levee’s back, and a skewed forest of second-growth cypress and crippled gum trees came up on the right, a fluffy bar of willows next to the stream on the left. She saw in the distance a big man at the base of the levee. He was dressed in khaki, leaning against a Ford pickup. She slowed her car and looked. Emile appeared to be about sixty years old. His felt fedora sat back on a bald head and framed a face as oblong as an eggplant. Colette tipped her sedan over the edge of the road and stood on the brakes as the wheels did a slow, drunken slide, and she came down seventy yards at an angle, stopping in the mud next to the truck. She got out and a smile formed briefly on the man’s small wrinkled mouth. “I see you know how to drive around here.” He walked over and she noticed that his stomach moved from side to side. His eyes were small and tired, but not mean. She thought of raising children like Etienne and wondered what Emile would look like if he had never married.

“You a little late; it’s getting light. But come on, let’s get your gear and take off.” He let her load him up with two shopping bags, and they walked alongside a brick-paper camp and out on its spindly dock to where a dented-up boat sat low in the water, a gray aluminum crew boat lined with old tires. The inboard engine was grumbling, and wreaths of vapor rose from the gargling exhaust. Emile planted a rubber boot on the side rail and stepped in. “If you want to come, I guess you can untie us and jump over without getting drownded?” He talked like his son.

She slipped the lines and jumped, following him into the cabin. The windows were cloudy, the ceiling studded with dirt dauber nests. “How long did you say this boat’s been laid up?”

“Don’t worry. I rebuilt this thing myself five years ago. It’ll haul ass.” He shoved the throttle forward, and the boat surged away from the dock. Soon they were in the broad canal and the willow trees were flying by like fence pickets. The bow hammered the flint-colored water and Colette hung on to a window handle. Emile lit a Camel, clamped it between his lips, and squinted ahead. “The Guard call you this morning?”

“No.” She sat on a gray stool on the left side of the low cabin. Everything was painted flat gray. The stools were plywood and their chalky paint came off on her hands.