I GUESS I WASN’T SURPRISED to find Dillon already there, sitting on the rock usually reserved for my brother (back when he still fished with us; back before he got his license and began driving the GTO—before he met Wendy with her jeans so tight she’d been known to pass out), his pole propped on a stick and the bill of his cap touching his nose, as though he were sleeping.
“You’re awfully early,” he said, having heard my approach, but didn’t look up. “How’d you get out?”
I sat down the tackle box and popped it open, chose a lure. “Brought up Mom.”
“Oh, man.” He lifted the bill of his cap and looked at me. “I bet she started quoting chapter and verse ...” He laughed without much humor. “Matthew, probably. ‘Blessed are those who—’”
“Mourn. For they will be comforted.” I shook my head. “N
