Fin carried his father’s name. It was heavy and he resented the weight. After seven years of lugging it around, he went home to their cold city intending to drop it, drop it for good. At that point he had drunk a lake’s worth, and the fish that came with it. The fish were recriminations, and finally he had to spit them out. There was no more room in his belly. Seven years was plenty, a biblical length of time. He was ready to settle the score.
Niagara Falls in February. You never forgot it. The big green river with its purposeful rapids, crystal mist above the falls, ice slabs cracking and stacking up in the gorge, the wind out of Canada on a killing spree that started in Newfoundland. People hunkered in habit around plasma screens telling lies about the spiritual effects of hard weather.
Already have an account? Log in
Join KR for even more to read.