collects_strays | [OOM] the other you catch

It's crawling toward one in the morning, and the light is still on. The dogs have settled into their own beds, except for Winston, who sits on the floor next to the chair, head resting in Graham's lap. Beneath Graham's fingers, the dog's ears twitch, but he doesn't make a sound. Buster lifts his head. The others stay curled in place. A few minutes later, Graham can see headlights flashing across the glass of the front window.

He waits to hear the doors slam. Only one – the crunch of gravel outside inevitably recalled watching the line of black SUVs surround his house. But only one door closing meant there was no such wave descending on him tonight. Graham rises from the chair. Winston slips away, but follows his steps toward the door. The knock rattles before they've reached it.

Crawford is standing in the doorway. He steps through the threshold without an invitation, taking off his hat as he enters the room. Graham moves out of his way. They meet each other's eyes, and before anything else, Crawford tells him –

"Miriam Lass shot Dr. Chilton."

Graham closes the front door. Neither of them speak again as they walk to the kitchen, and he puts two glasses down on the table.

The water laps along the single step up to his porch. Something common in cities built over canals, but the closest he'd had to it was Greenville. They'd lived near enough to the river that he could see the moonlight in the water from the window over his bed. There was a short dock that parted the light; it was where he had spent most of his time, the sound of the lapping current an easy way to calm his mind.

It occurs to him now that he should feel anything but calm. Mostly, he feels warm. The sunlight flashes along the surface of the river, a soft haze rising from it. His long coat has been draped over the woven chair by the door. Across from him, Abigail sits with her knees pulled up, leaned against the wooden beams that run along his porch. She's still wearing a dark red scarf around her neck. Like him, she's an imperfect reflection.

"It's better," she murmurs. "That it's just the two of us."

He nods, turning a steel hook over in his hands, carefully running its shank between his fingers. She glances to him, and then to the hook. "What are you gonna use?"

"What do you think?"

Abigail turns, just enough to look over her shoulder to the space on the porch between them. Spread over it is a vibrantly colorful palette: yellow feathers, soft pink fragments of a shattered shell, patches of light brown fur, slender green stems and red ribbons, long threads of dark hair, pearl-white bits of crushed teeth.

"How do you know what to choose?"

Graham considers it. "What you choose depends on what kind of fish you're trying to catch. Isn't that what worked for you?"

She doesn't answer. The silence lingers between them before she picks up one of the yellow feathers, and starts to spin it against her thumb.

"There are two main types of fly lures like these," he tells her. "Imitators and attractors. The imitators look and move like something the fish will want to eat, and attractors use colors and shapes that provoke a reaction from it."

"One you tempt, the other you taunt?" Abigail says, with a small grin. Graham laughs.

"Yeah, something like that," he answers. "Some yellow like that, and black thread, are good for taunting certain kinds of fish."

"And this kind..." She's still turning the feather, as he had the hook. "You felt like you knew my father. Imitating's kind of what you do, isn't it?"

He shakes his head. "It won't work now. He got away once, he has less reason to bite. It has to be something worth the risk."

"What's worth that?"

Graham takes a deep breath, watching her. "Some things trigger reactions we can't entirely control. Familiarity is one of them."

"Is that something you can make?"

"Is it something you made, Abigail?"

For a long moment, she falls silent again. There's only the sound of the lapping water, and a low breeze over the current, swaying the soft yellow tufts between her fingers.

And then, she says in a small voice, "They could've been my friends."

"Tempt or taunt," he answers, putting down the fish hook. "It's the same thing, isn't it?"

The breeze picks up, growing strong enough to tug at her hair. She lets the feather blow out of her hand, and lowers her head, leaning down to look between the wooden beams, out onto the water beyond. A shadow passes over her face.

"There's someone else here."

She flashes a glance back up at him, and then stands, pulling herself against the railing. Abigail takes one step down from the porch, and then a second, descending smoothly into the rushing current of the river, as though a staircase spilled out beneath it. She doesn't stop until she's nearly submerged by it – all except for her dark hair, which shines like oil on the surface of the water.

Without waiting, Graham follows her.