When morning comes, I wake to a boot in my side.
“Up,” is all Abel says.
The fire is high, coffee is ready, bacon is frying, and I smell biscuits. I can’t believe I slept through his efforts, but then I was tired, not to mention wonderfully set upon. Light is coming through the jarred window so I at least know we’re past sunup. Time to get to work. I’m eager for this now, eager to see what kind of operation Abel has.
Breakfast is as silent as supper until I once again speak. “Where’s your operation?”
“Upstream.”
“You get much off this creek?”
“Enough.”
I leave it at that, wondering if this is how we’ll be from now on, conversation that can hardly be called that. But it’s only our second day together, so I eat up, and when we go out, I find promise to the day because what I can see o
