He sat on the grass of the cleared-out spot, holding his fishing rod, gazing at the lake.

He did not know how long he sat. An hour, maybe. The sun was above the tree tips, warm on his back. His arm muscles still ached. He could still feel the weight of the fish in his hands. Guessed it at more than twenty pounds, maybe more than George Perry’s fish.

The lake was calm, quiet.

He sat, letting the water drain from the lake bed into his memory, and he did not see the man approaching him, until the man’s shadow fell across the grass beside him. He turned his head, looked up.

“You the one called Noah?” the man asked.

“I am,” Noah answered.

“I come looking for you,” the man said. He paused, added, “My name’s Littleberry Davis.”

Noah stood. Littleberry Davis was lanky, his face thin and pinched, the kind of face with a hawk’s look. His eyes were small and dark beneath the straw hat he wore down on his forehead.

“You been fishing?” Littleberry Davis asked.

Noah glanced at the lake, then looked back at Littleberry. “No sir. Just sitting,” he said, not regretting the lie.

Littleberry motioned to the rod that Noah held. “You got your rod with you.” His voice carried doubt over Noah’s answer.

“I been working on it,” Noah told him.

“What’s the ax for?”

“I was thinking of cutting down the tree where we found the boy,” Noah answered after a pause. “But I guess I’ll let it stay. It’s not my land.”

Littleberry made a sound of clearing his throat, shook his head. “I sure hated hearing about that. Howard Reynolds is as good a man as you ever want to meet, and I liked that boy. Always grinning, like he was about to bust out laughing.”

“Yes sir,” Noah mumbled.

“Everybody’s saying you the best at fishing they ever saw,” Lit-tleberry said.

“People like talking,” Noah replied.

Littleberry nodded, lifted his chin to let his eyes study Noah. “I was looking for you at the fishing yesterday.”

“Decided not to do it,” Noah said.

“You weren’t afraid of me, was you?” The question was asked in an easy manner, almost a tease.

“No sir. Just wasn’t up to it.”

“Just pulling your leg,” Littleberry said. “Wish you’d of been there, though. It’s the first time I ever won it when I had the feeling I come in second. Shows the power of talk, don’t it?”

“Yes sir, I guess it does,” Noah replied.

Littleberry nodded again. He looked at the lake. “They’s nothing out there to catch,” he said. “They died out.”

“What I heard,” Noah said.

“Take a look at the shoreline there,” Littleberry said, pointing toward it with a long finger. “You don’t see nothing, do you? Not even a minnow. A lake that’s got fish in it has always got some little fellows swimming around in that shore water, like they just hatched out and they scared of the deep water.”