when Steve set down his sticks, got up, answered the door-chime. Cool lake air wafted in through the empty doorway and blew the funk of weed and beer and slide lube from living room clear to kitchen. Steve couldn’t see who was there. Then he knelt down, and not looking back, reported: “It’s a fish.” Lake trout. About six pounds. Scales the same colour as the clouds, which were just a shade lighter than the lake itself, which was near black. There would be rain soon. Steve cocked his head, nodded, and turned back to us. “He wants us to keep it down.” Water roared a dull crescendo into the old claw-footed tub in the washroom, and that was the only sound until Vincent, the bass player, clicked a long barbecue lighter alive and held it trembling to the bowl of his bong. “Fish don’t care for Jimmy?” That from Dave, his guitar propped up by the trombone stand: Jimmy being Page.
