Frazzled from an overdose of Daltons, Jessica drove to the junction of Whitefish River and Hellroaring Creek to clear her mind. When she was a kid, she and her dad would wade up the crystal-clear stream in their felt-bottomed boots and waders, fly-fishing for cutthroat trout.
Now, her dad was gone; so were the trout. Sitting beside the creek, she lost herself in the reassuring sounds of water rushing over rocks. No matter what else changed, this place was forever. As she marveled at the rhapsody before her—river, stream, and sky—time stood still. She watched the sun burn its way to the horizon, a blazing reflection on the water chasing after it. The approaching darkness forced her out of her dream state, and she brushed the dirt off her black pants and headed back to the Subaru.
Still no
