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over the side. A boil of water nearby indicated momentary interest on the part of something large with fins. Involuntarily, Pat thought of his dip net, Roger thought of his rod and reel, and Jim thought of Kate and the smoker she’d built from an old refrigerator out back of the house.
    “Roger,” Jim said, “could I ask you to stick around a little while longer? I’m going to take some photographs, and then I’m afraid I’m going to need some help getting Tyler out of that basket.”
    Roger swallowed hard and tore his eyes away from the body. “Sure, Jim. Whatever you need.”
    If he had cause to regret the offer, he didn’t say so, even as he stood shivering uncontrollably on the river’s edge. Like Jim, his hands were bruised and numb, and he was so cold, he thought he might break if he bumped against the side of his skiff one more time. There was no help from the sun, which by now was well behind the trees that lined the bank. Roger had spent his life manhandling gear into his gillnetter and salmon out of the gear, twelve- and twenty-four- and sometimes thirty-six-hour periods at a time, but none of it was any comparison to trying to get 130 pounds of previously healthy man out of a fish wheel bucket. It had taken a couple of tries, him on Pat’s belaying line and Jim maneuvering the bucket to get it to a level where they could reach it from the skiff, which they had tied off to the fish wheel frame, and doing all this with the river pushing against them the whole time. It wasn’t the steadiest platform from which to operate. Rigor had set in on the body, which made things even more awkward.
    Pat didn’t offer to help, but he didn’t go anywhere, either. He sat in his skiff and watched them, his leathery, seamed face set, his eyes narrowed against the smoke from the Camels. A collection of ravens, crows, and magpies had gathered in the nearby treetops, not saying much, like Pat watchful, and waiting.
    By the time they got Tyler’s body out of the basket, Roger’s skiff was nearly swamped and both Roger and Jim were soaking wet. They put the body on the beach so they could tip the water out of the skiff. While Roger, teeth chattering, bailed out the rest, Jim squatted over the contorted body to see what he could see. His hands were almost too cold to tap the button on the camera app.
    The limbs were frozen in place, elbows bent, knees up, head bent far back, and unresponsive to pressure. Time of death was going to be a bitch, given the temperature of the river water, which rose in the Quilak Mountains and consisted for the most part of snow and glacier melt. The mesh of the basket had imprinted itself on Tyler’s forehead.
    In his pockets, Tyler had a cell phone that would not turn on—no surprise there—and a thick wad of twenties and fifties. That was all. Jim bagged them both and took a lot of photographs.
    He stood up, stretching himself back into shape and trying not to groan out loud. His uniform was clammy against his skin. “What time did you say he came out here, Pat?”
    Hiss of burning cigarette paper. “I booted his sorry ass out of bed at six A.M. He was on the river fifteen minutes later.”
    Jim rose to his feet and walked over to look into the square plastic tote in the aluminum skiff. It held about a dozen dead salmon. They had been there for long enough to begin to smell.
    “You ever do any canning or smoking here on-site?” he said.
    Pat Mack thought it over and decided it wasn’t a trick question. “Sometimes.”
    “This year?”
    The old man drew smoke deep into his lungs. “Don’t think so. I haven’t, anyway.”
    Jim looked into the pen attached to the fish wheel, again revolving with the passing river. The pen held more salmon, perhaps another dozen, these alive and well and whapping each other in the nose with their tails. Reds mostly, along with a few early silvers.
    He looked up to find the old man watching him, the red glow of his cigarette the only warm thing on the