Page 29 of Catcher

I take a spot near the back of one with Wick and Everest, settling in as the motor kicks, and we ease out into the bayou.

The water is smooth, dark, and reflective, resembling glass only broken by the slow wake behind us.

The bayou opens as we move in deeper. Cypress trees rise from the water like ghosts, their knees breaking the surface in twisted shapes. Spanish moss hangs heavy from the branches, swaying slowly in the morning breeze. Birds are waking, their calls echoing through the trees. Something splashes off to the left, disappearing before I can track it.

The smell out here is different, alive in a way the city never quite is.

The first stretch of sunlight finally breaks over the horizon, painting the water in gold and orange and casting long shadows through the trees.

It’s quiet.

The kind of quiet that settles into your bones.

I breathe it in, trying to absorb some of the silence, hoping to carry it with me long after we leave it behind.

We move slowly, navigating narrow channels and weaving between trees and submerged roots. The motors hum low as we travel deeper into the bayou.

“Right up here,” Pop calls from the lead boat, pointing with a crooked finger.

We cut the engines and drift the last few feet, then the work starts. Traps get hauled up one by one, heavy with mud and movement. Crawfish clatter inside the wire cages, snapping claws, dark shells slick with water and muck.

“Now that’s what I like to see!” Pop hollers as we dump them into coolers, the sound sharp as they hit.

Riggs grabs the next trap. “You been feedin’ these things steroids, Pop?”

Pop grins widely. “That’s called knowin’ what you’re doin’, son.”

I grab a line, pull the next trap up, and the weight settles into my hands. A low ripple moves through the water a few yards out. Then a long, dark shape breaks the surface.

A gator.

A big one.

“Keep your hands out of the water,” Wick calls.

Pop waves a hand. “He ain’t interested unless you fall in.”

We continue moving along. Trap after trap, we fill the coolers as the sun climbs higher. By the time we’re done, all the cold beer is gone, and we’ve got more than enough crawfish for today’s festivities.

We head back, the boats cutting through the now-bright water, the bayou fully awake around us.

A while later at Pop’s, the place comes alive quickly.

I haul the crawfish around the back of Pop’s house, dump them into large bins, run water through them, and start the purging process. The crawfish shift and snap as the water churns, cleaning them out.

Behind me, the rest of the guys start setting up boilers, grills, and tables. The scent of propane and charcoal mixes with everything else, with the promise of food and a long day settling into the air.

Hours pass.

And just like that, Pop’s yard is filled with family and friends. Laughter and voices are layered over one another. I stand off to the side for a minute, a cold beer in hand, watching it all unfold as I toss another log onto the burn pile for later, thinking to myself, this is my world, but their families. And I’m part of it, but not quite inside it. I take a pull from the beer, letting the cold cut through the heat of the day. And for the hundredth time today, my eyes cut to her.

Ruby.

She’s standing with the women, tucked in close as if she’s wearing them like armor. She glances up. Our eyes meet, and just as quickly, she looks away.

Something in my chest shifts.

I exhale slowly, watching as the women subtly shift around her.