With beating wings, a duck gently touched down into the misty waters not far from where bulrushes strangle the shore. It picks its wings with its beak.

"There's one, Darrel," the man with red boots whispered, "now, where'd she get hit." He put is fishing rod down, edging closer to the water while listening.

The other fisher, with freckles that blotched his face like a poor painting job, responded, "Shut your yapper, Cooter; she ain't hit," He wiped his nose, "That weren't no shotgun, and it weren't no 12 gauge. Ain't no way they was hunting waterfowl." He began to reel in his line. "—I don't see it, not at all." His lip stuck out as he considered the legality of bird hunting in late spring.

Surfacing his lure to find a wriggling nightcrawler, Cooter frowned. A certain thought made him say, "dontcha reckon we outta check it out? Make sure—yeah, that coke's fine—no one is hurt er lost?" The Cheerwine popped open, and Cooter took a quick swig.

"Cooter, ain't no way anyone—well, maybe we'll check that fellar out."