The pre-dawn chill cut through Saul's thin t-shirt as he stumbled up the steps to Vance's apartment. His body felt hollow, scraped clean by the night's disasters—blood under his fingernails, disgust burning behind his eyeballs, the police raid at Snake Pitt, and whatever had occurred at the Belmont. Everything ached.
The door opened before he reached it. Vance stood in the threshold, work boots already laced, thermos in hand.
"Perfect timing," Vance said, his voice carrying none of the judgment Saul expected. "Grab that cooler. We're burning daylight."
"What?" Saul blinked, disoriented. "I just need to crash—"
"Promised to take you fishing, remember?" Vance gestured toward the beat-up cooler by the door. "Tide's right. Fish are biting."
"Vance, I've been up all night. I can't—"
"Can't never could," Vance cut him off, pushing past to load his tackle box into the bed of his truck. "Sleeping's for folks who got nothing better to do."
Too exhausted to argue, Saul grabbed the cooler, its weight pulling on muscles already screaming from the night's excesses. He slumped into the passenger seat as Vance fired up the engine, country radio crackling between stations.
They drove in silence, streetlamps giving way to refinery fires, then to darkness broken only by headlights cutting through early morning fog. Vance hummed tunelessly, seemingly oblivious to Saul's battered state. With no AC, Vance cranked open the small triangular "cat ear" window vents, letting in cool morning air that smelled of marsh and exhaust. The faster they drove, the harder the wind whipped through the cab, drowning out the static-filled radio.
Saul's stomach growled. He peered into the cooler between them, hoping for some semblance of real breakfast, only to find it packed with ice, bait, and a six-pack of Dr Pepper.
"Got anything to eat?" he asked, his mouth dry and sour, already knowing the answer.
Vance reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bag of peanuts. "Breakfast of champions," he said, tossing the bag to Saul. Same as every fishing trip they'd ever taken—no real food, just Dr Pepper and peanuts.
The bayou appeared as they rounded the final bend—dark water, cypress trees rising from the mist, moss hanging in ghostly tendrils. Vance's aluminum bass boat towed behind on its trailer.
"Current's strong today," Vance observed as they slid the boat into the water. "Storms up north pushing it."
Saul grunted in response, focusing on not falling in as he climbed aboard. The cold metal seat sent a shock up his spine, momentarily clearing the fog in his head.
Vance maneuvered them out into the channel, the outboard motor's growl the only sound breaking the dawn stillness. They passed through narrow waterways where tree branches formed tunnels overhead, then emerged into a wide-open stretch where the horizon blurred into misty nothingness.
Vance cut the engine near a fallen cypress. "This'll do."
Saul accepted the fishing rod Vance handed him, muscle memory taking over as he threaded the line. His uncle had been dragging him out here since he was a kid, though rarely at this ungodly hour, and never when he felt this destroyed.
"You look like hell," Vance finally said, casting his line with practiced ease.
"Feel worse."
"Got into something last night?"
"Something like that."
Vance nodded, deciding to leave it alone, eyes on the water.
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the occasional splash of fish jumping nearby and the soft hiss of line being reeled in and cast again. The repetitive motion began to settle Saul's frayed nerves, his body finding comfort in the familiar rhythm despite his exhaustion.
Vance cracked open a Dr Pepper, took a long swig, then handed it to Saul.
"Here. Sugar'll wake you up."
Saul accepted the drink gratefully. Without prompting, Vance tore open the peanut bag and poured a handful directly into the bottle. The soda fizzed angrily, bubbling up around the nuts as they sank. It was their fishing ritual—Dr Pepper with peanuts—a Southern tradition that went back to Saul's first fishing trip when he was ten.
Saul watched the peanuts swirl in the dark liquid. Despite his hunger, there was something oddly comforting about the taste. It tasted like every fishing trip they'd ever taken, something constant in a world that kept shifting under his feet.
"Remember what I told you about fishing in different currents?" Vance asked, adjusting his position slightly.
Saul nodded, memories of their conversation from months ago surfacing. "The current thing. You said it's about finding the pocket between fighting and drifting."
"Good memory." Vance seemed pleased. "Been thinking more about that lately. Especially after what happened in '78."
"The storm? You mentioned it before."
"Yeah, well, some stories bear repeating." Vance reeled in his empty hook, examining the bait before casting again. "Especially since you look like you just weathered your own kind of storm."
Saul didn't deny it.
"That '78 squall hit harder than anything I'd seen before or since. Waves taller than you are now, wind that'd cut through your bones."
Though Saul had heard fragments of this story before, something in Vance's tone held his attention—a gravity that suggested deeper waters.
"I was younger than you," Vance said, eyes fixed on where his line disappeared into the dark water. "Thought I knew everything. When that storm hit, I tried fighting it head-on. Turned into the waves instead of working with them."
"You lost your boat."
Vance nodded. "Lost more than that. Nearly lost myself." He adjusted his grip on the rod. "What I didn't tell you before was that I wasn't alone that day."
This was new. Saul looked up sharply.
"Had a buddy with me—Ray Thibodeaux. Good fisherman, better friend." Vance's voice took on an unusual softness. "When the boat capsized, I got thrown clear. Ray didn't."
The gravity of what Vance was sharing settled heavily over Saul.
"Never found him. Search and rescue looked for three days. Nothing."
"Jesus, Vance. I didn't know."
"No reason you would. Not something I talk about much." Vance reeled in slowly. "But I think about it every time I'm out here. Especially when I see someone thrashing against their own kind of current."
The parallel wasn't lost on Saul. His gaze dropped to his raw knuckles, evidence of his own recent thrashing.
"That old timer who found me clinging to a cypress—he said something I didn't fully understand until years later." Vance's voice took on the cadence of recitation. "'There's three ways to meet a current: fight it and drown, drift with it and end up God knows where, or find the eddy and hold your ground.'"
Saul had heard this before, but now it landed differently—no longer just fishing philosophy but something that had been purchased with blood.
"What I didn't tell you before is that Ray already knew something I was too stubborn to learn. A fourth way."
"What's that?"
"Ray was always watching the water—not his tackle, not his boat, but the water itself. Reading it like music." Vance demonstrated with his hand, making a curved, sliding motion through the air. "He'd feel where everything was going to be, not where it was. Never rushed into anything, but when he moved, he moved fast."
Something clicked in Saul's mind, connecting to the strange card game with Bones at the Belmont. Position. Place. Finding the void that wasn't really empty. His hand moved unconsciously to his pocket, feeling the blank card Bones had left him—smooth, waiting, ready to be marked with something authentic.
"Ray could use the current's own force to take him where he needed to go," Vance said. "Not fighting it, not drifting with it, not just holding steady—but redirecting it. Using what was already moving to get somewhere else entirely."
There was wisdom in Vance's practical knowledge that went deeper than just fishing tactics. His uncle hadn't learned this from books or classrooms. Vance's wisdom came from decades on the water, from watching how the wind bent cypress trees without breaking them, from seeing how the marsh adapted to salt and storm. From watching his best friend navigate currents that Vance was too proud to read. Nature had been his only teacher, and he'd been paying attention.
They fell into rhythm—casting, reeling, waiting. The sun began to burn through the mist, transforming the bayou from monochrome mystery to vibrant life. Despite his exhaustion, Saul found his mind settling into the repetitive motion, the chaos of the previous night receding with each cast.
Vance cracked open another Dr Pepper, repeating the ritual with the peanuts, then handed it to Saul with a grin.
"Breakfast part two. The caffeine's kicking in, ain't it?"
"Most folks I see get in trouble," Vance said after a while, "they're either fighting too hard against what's coming or just letting themselves get swept downstream. Either way, they end up somewhere they didn't mean to be."
"Where does redirecting get you?"
"That's the thing—it's the only way you get to choose." Vance adjusted his line. "When you fight, the current decides. When you drift, the current decides. But when you redirect, you use what's already moving to take you somewhere else entirely. You read the patterns, feel where things are headed, then get there first."
Saul's line went taut suddenly, nearly pulling the rod from his hands. "Shit!"
"Got something big," Vance observed, setting his own rod aside. "Don't horse it. Feel what it's doing."
The fish pulled hard, threatening to snap the line. Saul remembered Dutch's wild strength, Claire's steady resistance. He adjusted, not fighting directly against the pull but not surrendering to it either. His muscles strained as he found that third position—not dominance, not submission, but something else entirely.
"That's it. See where it wants to go, then get there first."
Saul worked the rod with newfound intuition, letting the fish run when it needed to, applying pressure when it tired. The dance between them felt less like combat and more like negotiation, each using the other's movements to determine the next step. Without thinking about it, he was reading the fish's patterns—its strong pull to the left meant it was heading for cover under the cypress, its sudden surface run meant it was tiring. He found himself anticipating its moves, positioning himself not where the fish was, but where it was going to be.
Something about this moment felt fundamental, touching a principle that extended far beyond fishing. Ray's wisdom, filtered through Vance's hard-earned understanding. Letting things be what they are while still choosing where you end up.
The redfish that broke the surface was massive, at least thirty pounds of copper and power. It thrashed wildly as Saul guided it toward the boat, his heart pounding.
"Net," he gasped.
Vance scooped the fish safely, eyes widening at its size. "That's a monster. Biggest I've seen pulled from this spot in years."
The fish twisted in the net, gills working frantically. Saul stared at it, transfixed by its primal beauty, its perfect adaptation to its environment. Its eye—dark, alert, ancient—seemed to look right through him, a creature perfectly at home in its world.
For a moment, both men went silent, watching the fish's powerful movements, feeling the weight of something wild and perfect in their hands. In that suspended moment, Saul felt connected to something larger than himself, something that existed before his problems and would continue long after.
"Let it go," he said suddenly.
Vance raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. He carefully lowered the net, allowing the fish to slide back into the murky water. It hesitated for just a heartbeat, as if acknowledging them, then disappeared with a powerful flick of its tail, leaving only ripples that quickly faded to stillness.
"Some catches are just about knowing you could. Not about bringing 'em home."
They sat in silence as the sun climbed higher, burning away the last wisps of morning fog. Saul felt something unknot inside him—not healing exactly, but a shift toward possibility. The constant edge of anxiety that had driven him for months seemed to have receded, replaced by something quieter and more solid.
His hunger had evolved into something else now—not just for food, but for something he couldn't quite name. The sugar and caffeine from the Dr Peppers had him wired despite his exhaustion, thoughts sparking in directions he hadn't considered before.
"Dutch and I got into it last night," Saul admitted finally, the words feeling less like confession and more like simple fact. "Bad. Police got called and everything."
"Wondered about those knuckles." Vance didn't seem surprised. "You two were always gonna clash eventually. Both got too much current running through you to avoid it."
"There was a girl too. Claire."
"Ah." Vance's expression suggested this explained even more. "Triangle's a hard shape to balance."
"She rejected me. Well, rejected a letter I wrote her."
"Words on paper. Like trying to catch fish with a picture of a hook."
The observation struck Saul with unexpected force. Claire had said almost the same thing—that letters were safe, controlled, without risk. What she wanted wasn't his thoughts about her but his actual presence, his actions rather than his intentions.
Around noon, they packed up as the sun climbed higher, the day's heat beginning to assert itself. Saul's body still ached, but his mind felt clearer than it had in months. As they loaded the boat back onto its trailer, he noticed Vance watching him with unusual thoughtfulness.
"What?"
"Nothing. Just thinking you might be finding your way after all."
The drive back was quieter, both men lost in thought. The cat ear windows whistled as they cut through the humid air, making conversation difficult even if either had wanted to talk. Saul's stomach grumbled in protest at the meager peanut and Dr Pepper breakfast, but somehow the hunger felt clarifying, burning away the fog in his mind.
As they pulled up to the apartment, Saul noticed the sky had shifted—threatening clouds building to the west, promising the afternoon thunderstorms typical of Gulf summers.
"Storm's coming."
"Always is. That's the one thing you can count on around here. Question is whether you're fighting it, drifting with it, finding your pocket, or"—he gestured with his hand in that sliding, redirecting motion—"using it to go somewhere new entirely."
As they unloaded the truck, Saul found himself studying State City with new eyes. The water tower stood in the distance, its rusted frame silhouetted against the darkening sky. Something about its elevation, its position above the town's mundane concerns, pulled at him. An empty canvas waiting for a signature. A void begging to be filled.
But instead of climbing into Vance's truck for the ride home, Saul found himself walking toward that distant tower. The blank card in his pocket seemed to pulse with possibility—Bones' final lesson about claiming space rather than waiting for permission. The approaching storm felt different now—not something to shelter from, but something that might finally clear the air.
The first drops of rain began to fall as he reached the base of the water tower, but instead of the paralyzing fear he'd felt at the Belmont, Saul felt something else entirely. He'd been overthinking everything since Snake Pitt, analyzing every move, every word, every possibility. But Claire was right—words on paper were just shadows of action.
Time to stop reading the current and start using it.
As he began to climb, thunder rolled across the bayou behind him, and somewhere in that sound, Saul heard the first notes of something authentic—not a song exactly, but the raw material from which one might be carved. Something that could cut through State City's suffocating stillness, something that might wake people up.
Stop waiting for permission to exist, Bones had said. The blank card in his pocket felt warm against his leg as he pulled himself higher, each rung taking him further from the safety of the ground and closer to the space where real things got written.
The storm was coming, but this time, he planned to meet it on his own terms.
Read Chapter 13 here! Its the end of Part 2
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