An hour later, we sat at a rustic table one woodcrafting step up from a picnic bench, on a cafe deck looking out at a forest wetland of gray-trunked cypress—or was it tupelo? I’d never learned to tell the difference between their ridged, swollen bases. Lovely as it was, there was a slight odor akin to decomposition, the kind of tang that might just put you off your food on a hot summer’s day.
“What river is this?” Addy asked. She sipped her soda like a kid, stretching her neck and nearly piercing her top lip with the straw.
With Mike in the restroom, I shrugged my ignorance (Apalachicola? Suwanee? Styx?) while shoving another thick, wedge-shaped fry in my face. We’d gotten to the cafe too late for the catch of the day, but their cheeseburgers were nothing to sneeze at and the iced tea wa
