Crossing the clearing, lightning flashed, and Fish saw something dark and round out of the corner of his eye. He turned in the darkness and made out a silhouette near the edge of the island, where the land fell off into the river.
“Bread?” Fish took a slow step across the pine needles. His pulse rose. Between two cedars, something shook in the brush. It looked hunched over, like a bear’s back, and suddenly Fish got the uncanny feeling that he was in the presence of evil. Wet hair stood on his neck. His dream came back to him, the man with horns on his head, shaking and writhing. Fish didn’t know if he should speak, but he tried.
“Bread?” he said, more loudly this time.
The form stopped wrestling itself and stood up to a ghostly man-sized height. As it did, lightning flashed and lit the clearing.
Fish’s stomach balled in a knot. Air stopped in his lungs. The trees reeled and spun. A flood of river water rose through their branches. All was dark water.
The man wore thick, mud-smeared boots. His rain poncho lay open and waving. At his feet knelt Bread, eyes wide and terrified, a blackened claw of a hand holding Bread’s collar. Bread struggled against it, beat his arms and fists. The man held the revolver in his other hand and struggled to tuck it into his belt. But upon hearing Fish’s voice, his body froze. His face was half shaven, from jaw to scalp. A thick white bandage crossed his forehead and covered one eye. A bruise enveloped his nose and cheekbone and jaw.
Bread dropped free of the astonished man’s grasp.
“Fish, go!” he yelled.
Fish couldn’t move. The man’s stare bore through Fish’s middle, stole his breath, pinned him in place against the trunk of a pine. Fish felt more air leave him, as if he’d never taste it again. Before him, on this island in this wilderness, stood the man he’d killed. Muddied and wet, bandaged and startled, Bread’s father stood, grave-filthy. Fish watched confusion rise in the man’s face, in his eye. And then he saw the revolver twitch. A soiled thumb rested on the hammer. The man squared his stance, gained purchase on the revolver with both hands, and aimed it at Fish’s face. Fish gazed into the revolver’s bore, the honeycomb of the cylinder, the man’s dark eye plumb and still behind the sights.
Fish felt spit rise in his mouth.
“Both of youse,” spoke the man, nodding as he spoke, “are in trouble, and coming home right now.” It was the first time Fish heard the man speak rather than shout. His voice sounded like any man’s voice he ever heard, like it might be trusted, or might have been. Fish took a step forward, hesitated, felt a stone with his toe. Something inside him told him to pick it up. It was a small stone, the size of an orange. Fish stood with it in the rain, held it in his fist, which brought a dark change to the man’s face. He lowered the revolver a bit. Looked at Bread, then back at Fish, spoke to both of them.
“Neither one of youse is good for anything. No thanks in youse at all. No gratitude.” The man shifted his weight, nervous almost, confused. “You think you’re special, like someone owes you something special. And you’ve caused trouble you can’t fix. Well, I’m fixing it. I am! And I came all this way. I brought a boat, see? To bring you boys home.”
He paused, and nothing moved. Bread’s body shook. Fish held his rock. Heat rose in the man’s voice as he spoke. Heat and then severe quiet, in conflict with itself. Fish couldn’t tell if the man was there to save him or hurt him.
“Don’t you see there is no one else came to get you? Don’t you see I came! I’m the one out here with you.” He laughed through his nose, spit on the ground. “I am! No one is coming. Nothing ever comes. There’s only you and me.”
Something in those last lines made Fish lift his rock in the air. He lifted it against some darkness he couldn’t explain.
The man’s face went sour and tight.
“You son of—” The man didn’t finish. Three things happened all at once. Bread tried to scramble, his dad stooped to snatch his collar, and the revolver went off.
Fish ducked. Heard the bullet rip through the trees to his left. The shot surprised Bread’s dad enough that he missed his grab at his son. As Bread scurried into the shadows, his dad gritted his teeth and raised the revolver at Fish. He crushed it in his grip, put his finger on the trigger, but then spiked it into the dirt with an exasperated cry and came at Fish like fire. The man took three or four steps, and then reeled backward and howled in pain. Fish watched as Bread drove a dead branch into the backs of the man’s knees. The man’s hands went instinctively to the pain. He crouched and stumbled backward, toward the cliff. Bread swung again, caught him on the neck, and Bread’s father tumbled off the island.
Bread stared over the edge of the cliff. He lowered the branch, lifted it. There was panic and indecision in his movement, and then Bread dropped the branch and bolted upriver toward the raft.
“Dad!” he screamed. “Dad!”
Fish raced to the island’s edge. In the water leading to the falls, Bread’s dad slapped at the surface, his poncho over his eyes. Fish picked up the revolver at his feet and tucked
