The Dogs of Winter by Kem Nunn

swallowed a pill and got out his old road atlas, opening it to a map of NorthernCalifornia. One could see at once why the place they sought had proven so elusive over the years, for it was situated somewhere at the edge of a large extant of land which swept gracefully into the Pacific. The northern reaches of this expanse were colored in green to indicate national parkland. Much of the coast, beginning in the north at a point called Neah Heads, was colored in pink, as were the banks of the big river which spilled into the sea near the southern end, and these were named as three distinct reservations—the Hupa, the Yurok, and the Tolowan. As for the rest of it, there were simply great expanses of white—public lands, uncut by roads, empty save for the two black dots near the southern end, south of the big river. Of these, one was the state correctional facility at Scorpion Bay, the other, the tiny town of Sweet Home.
    The face which this piece of land presented to the sea was craggy and broken. The possibilities for surf were obvious. Most inviting, however, was a long, narrow point ending in something resembling a foot. It was the westernmost tip of the westernmost section of coast the state of California had to offer. A wide, natural bay ran back along the instep of the foot, and one might well imagine a large north swell hitting somewhere along the heel then running down the sole to break upon the bay. Fletcher took this configuration as what his book had called the Devil’s Hoof, though on the map it was named as Humaliwu and colored in pink.
    The town of Sweet Home maintained its lonely vigil over this land from the edge of a small harbor situated very near the mouth of the Klamath River but some miles south of the long point. All in all, it seemed to Fletcher a wild and lonesome enough place, home no doubt to eccentric pot farmers and Big Foot, the beast. And now home to Drew Harmon as well, if the man was not just fucking with them, if there was really a wave there to interest him. If there was, Fletcher sincerely hoped that he’d found a boat to go with it.
    •  •  •
    Fletcher had put away the map and was checking his film when Sonny Martin and Robbie Jones exited the restaurant.
    “Thirteen bowls,” Martin said.
    “Two full cartons of soda crackers,” Jones added.
    “Only one drawback,” Fletcher pointed out.
    “What’s that?”
    “Stuff will give you gas.”
    Sonny Martin just looked at him.
    “What he means,” Robbie Jones said, “is the stuff will make you fart.”
    Martin offered Fletcher one of his glazed smiles. “No way,” he said.
    Fletcher sighed. He was already behind the wheel when Sonny Martin spoke to him again. “Yo, Doctor,” Sonny said. “Looks like your ride just sprang a leak, man.”
    Fletcher wanted to believe that he had not heard this correctly. He looked into his side mirror. He could see both of them back there. Robbie had gotten to his knees and Fletcher could see the boy’s bald head pointed in his direction like some giant, flesh-colored dildo.
    “He’s right,” Robbie called. “Shit. I knew we shoulda had a rental.”
    Fletcher got out and looked beneath the old Dodge. What he saw was a huge puddle of water from which a tributary of modest proportions ran a short distance to the right before dribbling into some kind of drain. Had the lot been angled in the opposite direction, Fletcher might have seen the water when he walked out of the restaurant. Not that it would have made much difference. He would have been spared the boy’s commentary, was all.
    At last, Fletcher straightened and looked around. There was a Union 76 station about a quarter mile away, near the freeway on-ramp. With luck, the van would need nothing more than a hose, the station would have one. He said as much to the boys. Sonny was already in the back, supine on a board bag. Robbie had gotten a wrist rocket from one of his packs and was looking around for something to shoot. “Yeah,