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Amber.
    “Hey, Remo! You no fish?”
    “Nope. I’m going to treat myself to another brew and enhance my tan. There’s plenty of time for fishing tomorrow.”
    Mickey pulled on his green felt-tip waders and sloshed out into the middle of the river, while Remo and Charlie and Cayley sat on the rocks and watched him. As the sun sank closer to the edge of the rimrock, the surface of the water glittered like broken glass, and all they could see was Mickey’s silhouette as he cast his line across the ripples. There was no sound except for the gurgling of the river and the zizz of Mickey’s reel as he paid out more line.
    After a while, Cayley said, “It’s beautiful and everything. But it’s so darn quiet. At least when you watch those nature programs, they have music.”
    Charlie shook his head in amazement. “She’s on a fishing trip, out in the wilderness, hundreds of miles from anyplace at all, and she wants a sound track. “
    “So?” Cayley retorted. “A sound track helps you to understand what’s going on.”
    “Oh, you mean like tinkly harp music, so you know that it’s a river, and loud trumpety music, so you know that it’s a real high rock?”
    “You’re such a scream,” said Cayley. She teetered across to the Winnebago and came back a few minutes later with her portable stereo and a flowery foam cushion. She put on a trance track by Duke of Motion and lay back on one of the boulders, with her pink sunglasses on top of her head, basking in the last warmth of the afternoon sun. So now they had the river gurgling, and Mickey’s reel zizz ing, and the endless tikka-ti-tikka-ti-tikka of Cayley’s music.
    Mickey screamed out, “Take a look at this, guys! Moby Fricking Dick!” He was holding up a thrashing brown trout, at least eighteen inches long.
    Remo held up his beer bottle in salute. “You the man, Mickey! Lord of the Flies!” Mickey carefully unhooked the fish and let it slide back into the river.
    The sun burned its way into the top of the rimrock. The sky turned lurid orange, and the temperature began to drop. Mickey came splashing in from the river and pulled off his waders. “You just have to be careful, man. The bottom is so darned slippery, it’s like trying to walk on bowling balls covered in snot.”
    Charlie collected armfuls of dry brush and built a circular hearth out of small boulders. He flicked his Zippo, and the brush crackled into life immediately, so that sparks whirled across the river like fireflies.
    “Anyone for wieners?” he asked once the fire was burning up hot.
    “Absolutely,” said Remo. “And bring out those chicken legs, too, will you? And lots more beer. It’s like we’re suffering some kind of a Michelob drought out here.”
    “Is that all, O master?”
    “No. Bring out those cheesy Doritos, and those giant pretzels, and those knobbly jalapeño things.”
    “Of course, O master. A balanced diet is so important, don’t you think?”
    As Charlie climbed the steps into the Winnebago, they heard a deep, hollow roar, like half a ton of coal being emptied down a chute.
    “What was that?” asked Cayley, sitting up straight.
    “Mountain lion, probably,” said Remo. “They usually start prowling around this time in the evening.”
    “Oh my God. Are they dangerous?”
    “Well, sure, they’re dangerous. But they don’t usually attack humans. Not unless they’re provoked, anyhow.”
    “Don’t you think we’d better go inside?”
    “No, it’s okay. Mountain lions don’t like fire, and I’ll bet you fifty dollars they have a serious aversion to trance music, too, and psychedelic shirts. The only time they’ll jump on you is if you act chickenshit and try to run away from them.”
    “Maybe you ought to go get your gun.”
    “Cayley, for Christ’s sake, we’ll be fine . I know it sounded close, but that lion is probably more than a mile away.”
    “All the same.”
    “Okay,” Remo said, relenting. He went back to the Winnebago and returned