And maybe he was there for the talk more than the fishing, Taylor reasoned. Over the years he had heard enough fish stories to fill a book, or a shelf of books.

Catfish that could wiggle out of the water and walk on fins across an acre of plowed field just to get to another stream.

Eels that would put a jolt of electricity in you, or jump-start your car if the battery was dead.

Salmon coming out of the ocean and swimming hundreds of miles upriver just to turn red and spawn and then die—so many salmon a man could walk across the water on their backs and bear would sit in the shallow water with bibs around their necks and forks in their hands.

Fish that could fly like a bird on flapping side fins.

Whales swallowing small boats like a man eating a peanut.

Flatfish with both eyes on one side of their head, looking a lot like old lady Gwendolyn Pilcher, who had taught school in the valley for fifty years and gave ugly a bad name.

Fish that could shoot needles of poison like little arrows, and, yes, by shot, they were in the Hiawassee River, and if you were a boy or a tomboy girl too little to swim and too dumb to stay out of the water, you would feel the sting of those arrows.

Taylor had heard all of the stories, had offered some version of them in his own turn of talking.

Still, none of them equaled what he had seen from Noah Locke, catching catfish—only catfish—like a man in a circus pulling rabbits out of a tall silk hat.

He had spent hours thinking about it since watching it happen.

It was as though the fish had been looking for Noah, rather than Noah looking for the fish, and he could not shake from his mind the sight of Noah squatting down to touch the water with his spread-open palm. It was like he was giving the fish a scent, telling them he had finally come for them. Like Whitlow’s bloodhounds taking the scent of Howard Reynolds’s grandboy from a dirty shirt.

It was something he would never see again.

Never.

He wondered where Noah was, wondered if he had packed up and left. Hoped not, and his hope had nothing to do with finishing the painting. It was a few hours’ work. He could do it himself. And it had nothing to do with owing Noah money for the work already done. He would put the money aside and hold it in case Noah returned one day, or he would call the Elbert County jail and ask about Noah’s brother and make arrangements for Noah to get the money when he showed up for a visit. It wasn’t the money. Getting the money to Noah would be done. More than anything, it had to do with Noah, himself. It had been a long time since he had met anybody with Noah’s nature. A long time.