Page 28 of Catcher

His throat works as he nods, gripping the bottle tighter now.

“You got girls, right?” I add.

“Yeah,” he says.

“It’s a nice neighborhood. Safe,” I tell him.

His eyes shift that way, something breaking open behind them just a little. “They ain’t had safe in a while,” he admits.

I take a slow pull from my beer. “They do now.”

Darren watches the exchange, quiet but satisfied. “You keep showin’ up,” Darren tells Marcus. “That’s part of the deal.”

Marcus nods again, firmer this time. “I will.”

I jerk my chin toward the crew packing up tools. “Stick around,” I add. “Grab a hammer tomorrow. Help the next one.”

He looks at me as if he didn’t expect that.

Then something settles in his expression. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I can do that.”

The Following Morning

The sun hasn’t broken the horizon yet when I pull into Pop’s property.

The sky is still dark, but not fully night yet. It’s that in-between hour where the world holds its breath before the day begins. A faint gray-blue stretches across the bayou, just enough light to shape the trees and water without giving anything away.

The air is thick with the scent of damp earth, mud, moss, and cypress. It’s that deep, living scent of Louisiana that settles into your lungs and stays there.

I park, kill the truck, and step out, boots crunching against gravel as I take in the scene. Engines are already idling near the boat launch as I stroll across the yard.

Riggs is there, standing near the dock, coffee in one hand, talking low with Nova. Wick is placing a cooler into one of the boats.

And then there’s Pop, sitting on an overturned crate as if he owns the whole damn bayou, which, in a way, he does. His worn hat covers his head, and a grin is carved into his face like it’s permanent. His eyes are sharp as ever despite the years behind them. Today is the old man’s birthday. I still don’t know how old he is—never asked.

“How’s this fine mornin’ treatin’ ya?” he calls when he spots me.

I huff a breath, stepping closer. “I get to see another sunrise.”

“That’s all any of us can hope for, son,” he shoots back without missing a beat. “Welp,” Pop slowly stands. “I reckon that’s all of ya?”

“Yeah, Pop. Fender and Kiwi are lending their masculine skills to help the women this mornin’,” Riggs says.

Pop chuckles. “I guess that means more beer for us then.” He steps into the boat, settles in his seat, and reaches into the cooler.

“Don’t ya think it’s a bit early to start celebrating, Pop?” Nova shakes his head, grinning.

“Only thing too early in the bayou is a gator with bad intentions.” Pop cracks open the can of beer. “This here’s just good judgment.” He takes a drink.

I can’t stop the corner of my mouth from pulling slightly. This right here is why I get up in the mornings. And for the past few years, being a part of this tradition has become something I look forward to. Didn’t expect that when I first rode with the Kings.

Actually, I didn’t expect much.

But this right here? Heading out to check crawfish traps at sunrise with Pop and my brothers is food for the soul.

Pop slaps his leg once. “Quit standin’ around lookin’ pretty, men. Let’s move.”

We all load up. The boats rock gently against the dock as we step in, and the engines cough to life one by one.