Hunger

But instead of making out and talking about the stars or whatever, they argued. It reminded him of his mother and stepfather. Not happy memories.

He spent the night on the lumpy cot in his office and woke early, before the sun was even up. He dressed and crept out before kids could start arriving to bug him with more problems.

The streets were quiet. They usually were nowadays. Some kids had been given permission to drive, but only on official business. So there was no traffic. On the rare occasions there was a car or a truck, you’d hear it long before you saw it.

Now Sam heard a motor. Far off. But it didn’t sound like a car.

He reached the low concrete wall that defined the edge of the beach. He jumped atop it and immediately spotted the source of the sound. A low-slung motorboat, a bass boat they were often called, was putt-putting along at no more than walking speed. With dawn just graying the night sky Sam could make out a silhouette. He was pretty sure he recognized the person.

Sam walked down to the water’s edge, cupped his hands around his mouth to form a megaphone, and yelled, “Quinn.”

Quinn seemed to be fiddling with something Sam couldn’t see. He yelled back, “Is that you, brah?”

“Yeah, man. What are you doing out there?”

“Wait a second.” Quinn stooped down, dealing with something. Then he turned the boat toward shore. He beached the shallow craft and killed the engine. He hopped out onto the sand.

“What are you doing, man?” Sam asked again.

“Fishing, brother. Fishing.”

“Fishing?”

“People are looking for food, right?” Quinn said.

“Dude, you can’t just decide to take a boat and go off fishing,” Sam said.

Quinn seemed surprised. “Why not?”

“Why not?”

“Why not? No one’s using the boat. I found the fishing gear. And I’m still putting in my guard-duty hours with Edilio.”

Sam was at a loss for words. “Did you catch anything?”

Quinn’s teeth showed white in the darkness. “I found a book on fishing. Just did what they said in there.” He reached down into the boat and lifted something heavy. “Here. You can’t see it in the dark. But I’ll bet it weighs twenty pounds. It’s huge.”

“No way.” Despite his foul mood, Sam grinned. “What is it?”

“I think it’s a halibut. I’m not sure. It doesn’t look exactly like the fish in the book I got.”

“What do you plan to do with it?”

“Well,” Quinn said thoughtfully. “I guess I’m going to try and catch some more, and then I’m going to eat a bunch of it, and then maybe see if Albert will trade me something for whatever I don’t eat. You know Albert: he’ll figure out some way to fry them up at Mickey D’s and do fish sticks or whatever. I wonder if he still has any ketchup.”

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea,” Sam said.

“Why?”

“Because Albert doesn’t just give stuff away. Not any more.”

Quinn laughed nervously. “Look, brah, don’t tell me I can’t do this, okay? I’m not hurting anyone.”

“I never said you were hurting anyone,” Sam said. “But look, Albert’s going to sell this fish to whoever will give him whatever he wants: batteries and toilet paper, whatever else he figures out he can control.”

“Sam. I got, like, twenty pounds of good protein here.”

“Yeah. And it ought to go to the people who aren’t getting enough, right? Mother Mary could serve some to the prees. They’re not eating much better than the rest of us, and they need it more.”

Quinn dug his toe in the wet sand. “Look, if you don’t want me to sell or trade the fish to Albert, okay. But look, I have this fish, right? What am I supposed to do with it? Someone needs to put it on ice before long. I can’t just walk around town handing out pieces of fish, right?”

Once again Sam felt the wave of unanswerable questions rising around him like a tide. Now he had to decide what Quinn did with a fish?

Quinn continued. “Look, I’m just saying I can haul this fish and any others I get up to Albert and he has a refrigerator big enough to keep it in good shape. Plus, you know how he is: he’ll figure out how to clean it and cook it and—”

“All right,” Sam interrupted. “Fine. Whatever. Give it to Albert this time. Till I figure out some kind of, I don’t know, some kind of rule.”

“Thanks, man,” Quinn said.

Sam turned and headed back toward town.

“You should have come in and danced last night, brah,” Quinn yelled after him.

“You know I don’t dance.”

“Sam, if anyone ever needed to cut loose, it’s you.”

Sam tried to ignore his words, but their pitying, concerned tone bothered him. It meant that he wasn’t keeping his mind secret. It meant he was broadcasting his foul, self-pitying mood, and that wasn’t good. Bad example.

“Hey, brah?” Quinn called.

“Yeah, man.”

“You know that crazy story Duck Zhang’s talking about? Not the cave thing, but the part about, like, flying fish-bats or whatever?”

“What about them?”

“I think I saw some. Came shooting up out of the water. Of course, it was dark.”

“Okay,” Sam said. “Later, dude.”