When Is a Man by Aaron Shepard Page B

he’d never heard of, the last several chapters water-damaged and unreadable. He warmed water on the stove and then washed himself with a cloth, tracing the scars that furrowed his perineum. He was the sum of his body’s failings, and he was well within the age at which failure mattered.

    He slept heavily and woke before his alarm only because a door had slammed. He peeked through the curtain to see an old blue pickup, parked as far from his own truck and camper as the site would allow. He slid out of bed and dressed quickly. When no one came to knock on his door, he opened all the curtains in the camper and looked out each window. No doubt the visitor was a fisherman, here to cast for cutthroat—Tanner had said to expect some anglers—and desired human company no more than Paul.
    As he put on his waders outside, he heard a sharp crack. He pulled the suspenders over his shoulders and started down the path to the fence. Another shot echoed—a gun, he was sure now—ahead of him. He brushed his way past the wolf willow and alder and stumbled onto the gravel bar beside the measuring station. A broad-shouldered man in a ratty purple fleece stood over the upstream weir, the creek pouring into his rubber boots. Water had wicked up his jeans past his knees. A mess of grey and white hair stuck out of a stained ball cap that sat too high on his head. He looked vaguely familiar, but Paul was distracted by the small rifle the man was pointing into the weir, the butt tight against the inside of his shoulder.
    â€œStay fuckin’ still, will ya.” The man’s growl was coarse and phlegmy. He swung the gun barrel in wild circles, then fired a shot into the water.
    â€œWhoa!” Paul yelled, not meaning to. He had already turned to dash back to the camper, but the cleat of his left foot slid on a rock, and he stumbled two steps toward the creek instead. The old man spun and pointed the rifle at Paul’s head. The man’s eyes widened, and his mouth contorted and worked soundlessly, trying to get words out.
    â€œGarbage fish,” he stammered finally. “That’s what they are!” The man turned toward the trap, about to take another shot, but then began to lurch downstream to the Immitoin. “Fuckin’ garbage fish!” He shouted it again as he scrambled up the bank, water spilling from his boots, and disappeared into the trees.
    Paul’s knees buckled, and he collapsed heavily onto the gravel. Almost as quickly, he rolled back on his feet, unsure what to do. He went down to the fence and saw two bull trout, male and female, floating on the surface of the upstream weir, their bodies pressed by the current against the back of the trap. The male had its eye shot out, the upper part of its skull split open. The other bled from a hole in front of the dorsal fin; she was still alive, flicking her tail fin as she tried to right herself. He heard a truck engine start. The waders made running nearly impossible, but he managed a straight-legged reel back to the site and arrived in time to see the truck tear onto the main road in a sepia cloud of dust, skid a hard right, and head south.
    He paced frantically, in and out of the trailer, and then finally returned to the fence to carry on the morning count. The other fish couldn’t be left in the weirs all day. The dead male he scooped out and kept on the measuring table. He’d freeze the trout in a Ziploc as some sort of—what, evidence? There were three more trout, but he couldn’t process them properly: the tagging gun trembled dangerously in his hand, he couldn’t get the angle right. He returned them to the creek. Maybe he’d get them on their way back down.
    The last fish, the injured female, hugged the bottom of the stream. When he netted her, she came alive, wiggling in short frantic bursts. She was the biggest female he’d seen so far, a little over the length of his forearm, her fins and sides