Fishing for Grandpa

The bulge in the water moved against the river’s current. Chad wasn’t sure why he’d noticed it—setting the canoe in was work enough without scanning for them. It wasn’t like he could do anything about them anyway.

And if they decided to do something about him, oh well.

Still, a man had to live. He laid the ceramic shotgun down in the boat, wrapped in 30-mil sheeting. Nothing metal in that baby except the shell butts and the firing pin, and the loads had were special. Very special.

Chad prayed to God he’d never have to fire it. That would probably the last act of his life. Second to last act, he corrected himself, if the process of dying counted.

Everything was ready to go. Little Oscar full of beer and bagged chicken blood. A thermos of coffee. Three pounds of chum in a zip-lok. Herb-laced matches.

“Grandpa, I’m coming for you,” he told the river, and shoved the canoe into the water.

The bulge had gone, he noticed, headed further upriver.

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