Eddie looped a rope around Mitts’s neck to make certain the pit bull wouldn’t charge off and annoy the Dutchman. A fisherman, especially one such as Beck who despised company, was meant to be alone at his task. The river was choppy, because of the rising wind, so Eddie made his way to a small, clear stream that filtered into the Hudson. He hunkered down, his collar raised. Soon enough he found success, a trout that fought valiantly, until it had exhausted itself. When reeled in, the trout was such a lovely specimen Eddie hadn’t the heart to let it gasp its last on the grass. He sloshed some water into his tin pail, then slid the fish inside. The trout, frenzied to find itself captured, leapt up, banging itself against the side of the pail before at last settling to the bottom, spent, a slash of living light.

Eddie set his camera on its wooden trilegged stand. After all the hackwork he did for the papers, he wondered if he had lost the ability to take an honest photograph. If this was so, he alone was to blame. He was reminded of the Yiddish oath union workers took when setting out on strike lines. If I turn traitor to the cause I now pledge, may this hand wither from this arm I now raise. Perhaps he had become a traitor to his art and to the man Moses Levy thought he might become. The photograph of the fish would be dependent upon skill, and Eddie worried over his talent. Without shadows the image would appear to be nothing more than a bucket of murky water. Without compassion, nothing but a fish, trapped and defeated.

The hermit, who wrapped his own day’s catch in newspaper, had begun to climb up the bank toward the little stream. Eddie muttered to himself, wishing to be left alone. But Beck was headed straight for him, ferns flattening under his heavy, laced boots. Eddie regretted having given the Dutchman a bottle of rye, for such kindness led to intimacy and confidences, neither of which he wanted.

The hermit stood nearby to watch as the fish was photographed. When Eddie had finished, Beck peered into the bucket. His beard was long, unkempt, his expression concerned.

“You should let that fellow go. For his own good and yours.” The hermit was wise to wear a heavy coat. In town, the day was warm, but here beside the river the pale rays of sun did little to warm the chill that drifted off the water.

“Why’s that?” Eddie did not raise his eyes, so as to keep his distance. He continued to busy himself with packing up his camera. He’d dealt with madmen before. Best not to meet their glance or learn too much about their wretched histories.

“You took his photograph,” Beck said solemnly. “Now you’re responsible for his soul. You should give him back to the river. Otherwise he’ll take you somewhere you may not want to go.”

Eddie did his best not to laugh. “It doesn’t work that way.” Only a fool would believe that a soul could be stolen on film, or that a fish was no different than a man and had a soul of equal worth. “If a camera interfered with souls, I’d be equally responsible for yours, since you sat for a portrait.”

“Maybe that’s why I let you trespass on such a regular basis.” Beck’s expression was thoughtful. “This river used to have schools of shad so thick you could walk across the river on their backs and your boots would stay dry. But then the boats came, and the nets, and now we’re lucky to have what little we’ve got. That’s why I run people off. I’d be within my rights to kill you, but now we’re in this together, like it

or not.”

“Surely we’re not in anything together,” Eddie was quick to respond. As far as he was concerned the only thing they were in together was the boggy, green woods. He might have argued further, but he quickly bit his tongue when he noticed a rifle under the hermit’s coat. At crime scenes Eddie paid attention only to the limp forms, the black blood, a collection of images that formed his photograph. He was there to observe and report, nothing more. He’d never wondered if the victims’ throats were dry at the time of their demise, if their hands had been clammy, if they’d gotten down on their knees to beg for their lives. Now his own hands were themselves quite clammy, his throat nearly too dry to speak, though he managed as best he could. “Although I must say I’m glad I’m not another man.”

Before Beck could respond, Mitts wrenched forward, pulling free from the rope so that he might trot over to the hermit. He cheerfully knocked his stocky body against Beck’s legs.

“What’s this supposed to be?” the old man asked, surprised by the dog’s good nature.

“He was supposed to be a fighting dog. Then he was supposed to be dinner for the fish.” Eddie lifted his rod over his shoulder. If need be, he could use it to protect himself if the hermit’s suspicious side took over. “Now he’s supposed to be my dog.”