The older man had taken a look at his boat and had verified what Chris already knew. He’d shot at least one piston. The Son Catcher wasn’t going anywhere until Chris came up with a thousand bucks and the time to fix her. And if he kept dipping into his savings, he wasn’t going to have anything left for his retirement. Not that he had any plans to quit working. If he couldn’t fish, there wouldn’t be anything left to live for, anyway. “You don’t come around enough, Chris.” Jim’s wife, Marta, put a plate of fresh crab sandwiches on the table in the enclosed patio and pulled up a stool. “I don’t want to impose,” Chris said. “Your folks have been gone almost ten years, and you’ve been here, what, five times since then?” It sounded so bad when she put it like that. “I miss our Friday-night dinners.”
