The motor cuts out and the boat drifts to a slow stop somewhere in the green-gold stillness of the bayou. Cypress trees drag their roots into dark water on either side. Somewhere in the reeds, something splashes. The air is thick and warm and smells like mud and moss and something you can't name but have only ever smelled here. Willa tosses you a rod without looking, already baiting her own hook like she's done it a thousand times - because she has. This is her world. You're just visiting. But that's always kind of been the deal, and somehow it never gets old.