The wheelbarrow snagged on the Goldie’s ferns as they wrapped in the wheel spindle. Matt jammed it through like a fork through a salad. Bird sound echoed to the east, maybe a boreal chickadee. He maneuvered the wheelbarrow in between the boot-snatching springs towards the Black. Then he removed his boots, took the shovel, and worked down into his half of the river, careful not to go any further. The cold rush groped him as he jammed the shovel blade beneath a rock. Air pockets welled up to the surface and floated downstream, disintegrating before his eyes. He reached into the icy water, pulled out a hunk of slate, and placed it on the steep bank. He thought of how the original landowners did the same many years ago when they built the fireplace. There was a sense of connection, of history repeating itself. He thought of his father and Ron doing the same thing for the fire pit and walkway.

Hey dad, I’m passing along the tradition, he said.

Fog ensconced the land as he pulled up boulder after boulder. Sometimes when he lifted a rock chub darted away. He didn’t see any brook trout. They were smart enough to stay away and probably a mile downriver by now.

Fog filtered through the aspens and maples like woodsmoke. The ferns were buried in it, which meant he was, too. At one point he had to reach through fog to sink his hand into the Black.

Soon the police sirens faded to nothing. A gray jay called from the east, back over the series of S-turns the Black made in this winding stretch. Leaves fluttered in the breeze above the layer of fog, the fresh greens of summer now encroached by red and yellow. Matt paused in the river, listening, sweating, eyes scanning. He knew the Being was watching him. Matt was sure if he stepped ten more feet across the river, he’d be pulled back. He didn’t want any of that today (or ever). There was work to do.

Beat, he sat on the steep bank and admired his collection of boulders and rocks. Sunlight filtered through the fog in jagged shards, gleaming off the multihued rocks.

This should do it, he thought. He wiped his sweaty hair out of his eyes, lifted a boulder, and placed it in the wheelbarrow. The pudgy tire sunk down and the handles creaked as he rammed the loaded wheelbarrow through the vegetation. On the road, he stopped and studied the downed trees.

Maybe if those patrol cars had come a bit closer he might’ve . . .

You could use another distraction, the little voice said. You may not have appreciated the bog, but you were free. I say let them come.