Huck captains The Mississippi offshore to the south-southeast toward the coordinates Cleve gave him. Irene “Angler Cupcake” Steele is lucky, because the water is glass and the boat might as well have a diamond-edged hull. The ride is smooth and easy—and despite having an unwanted, unexpected passenger, Huck relaxes. Is he surprised this woman found him? He is. But then again, he isn’t. He had guessed that she existed, though he never spoke the words out loud. He thought maybe a few months from now, someone from the secret life of the Invisible Man might surface.

Or was this the Invisible Man’s secret life?

Yes, Huck thinks.

He might ask Irene some questions. Maybe by learning about Russell Steele, he’ll learn about Rosie. But Huck knew Rosie. He knew Rosie. She fell in love with a man who had a wife elsewhere and now that wife was here on Huck’s boat, expecting Huck to answer questions like he owes it to her.

Does he owe it to her? That’s not a question he wants to explore right now.

He’s less bothered by her presence than he ought to be. Why is that? Because she’s hurting, too. Because she lost someone at exactly the same time he did, and so she also must feel like the gods have her by the head and toes and are wringing her out.

But enough. It’s time to fish.

As Huck nears the coordinates Cleve gave him, he slows down. A little ways off he sees something floating on the water and directs the boat over until he can see what it is. A rectangular cut of carpet. Huck bends over to grab it.

“Someone tossed that?” Irene asks.

“Someone left it,” Huck says. “As a marker. This is where the fish are. Or were. There’s no telling now. I heard this back on New Year’s Eve.”

“Before,” Irene says.

They’re in the same emotional space. There’s no way to think of New Year’s Eve except as before.

Huck nods and grabs a rod for Irene and one for himself. He checks her lure and her line and hands it over.

“You know how to cast?” he says.

“Of course,” she says.

“Would you like a beer?”

“If you’re having one,” she says.

Well, it’s his day and he is having one. He happens to believe that beer brings the fish. He flips the cap off two Red Stripes and places one in the cup holder next to Irene’s left hip. Then he retreats to the other side of the boat and discreetly watches Irene.

She lifts the beer to her lips and takes a nice long swallow. Then she holds the line, flips the bale, and executes a more than competent sidearm cast. Wheeeeeeeeee! The line flies.

Beautiful, Huck has to admit. He hasn’t seen a woman—hell, a person—cast like that since… well, since he’s not sure when.

Nearly as soon as she starts to reel the line in, her rod bows.

“Fish on,” she says. Her voice is calm and assured. Most women—hell, people—get a fish on and they shout like God lost a tooth. The rod is really bending; there’s a fish on and it’s big. Huck gets a rush. He has been skunked since Halloween. He’s ready—more than ready.

“You want help with that?” Huck asks.

“Not yet,” Irene says.

“Come sit in the fighting chair,” Huck says. “I think you’re going to need it.” He leads Irene over to the chair and gets her situated, pole in the holder. Meanwhile, she’s doing just the right thing, letting the fish take some line and then reeling when the fish rests. Huck would normally be offering verbal instructions, but Irene is making every move at just the right time. He can’t be accused of “mansplaining,” which has earned him the silent treatment from both Rosie and Maia in the past.

Huck moves Irene’s beer to where she can reach it and she does, at one point, take a quick swig, then gets back to reeling. She is one cool customer. Likely she has a monster on the other end of her line, and Huck has seen men twice her size give up on light tackle. It’s difficult by anyone’s standards.

“You’re doing great,” Huck says. He feels strangely useless, the way he felt at Rosie’s bedside when she was giving birth to Maia. “Just let me know if you need help.”

“I’m fine,” Irene says.

She is fine, releasing, then reeling in, two steps forward, one step back, which is what a fish like this takes, and she doesn’t seem to be losing patience. Fifteen minutes pass, then twenty. She’s getting more aggressive with her reeling, which is what he would have advised. The fish is getting tired.

“Anyone else would have handed the reel over by now,” Huck says.

“I doubt that,” Irene says.

“I only meant to say you’re doing well,” Huck says. He can’t believe it, but he thinks of the Invisible Man, Russell Steele. You have a wife who fishes like this and you cheated on her?

Huck should cast his own line, he knows, but he’s vested in this fight and wants to see it through. Irene lets the line go and then she reels with a grunt—she’s human, after all—and just like that, Huck sees the flash of gold fins beneath the surface.

“Here we go, baby,” he says. “Don’t give up now. Bring him in.”

Irene lets out a moan that sounds like a bedroom noise, and Huck won’t lie, he gets a bit of a rise. But no time to dwell on that, thank God, because here’s the fish. Huck grabs the gaff and leans all the way over the side of the boat to spear the fucker and hook it up over the railing onto the deck of The Mississippi, where it flops around, making a tremendous ruckus. It has gorgeous green and gold scales, Huck’s favorite color in the world, and the protruding forehead of a bull fish.

“Mahi mahi,” he says. “I’d say twenty-five pounds, maybe forty inches long.”

Irene takes a sip of her beer. “Can we eat it?”

“For days,” Huck says. Without thinking, he raises his hand for a high-five and Irene slaps his palm, square and solid. He grabs her hand.

“Congratulations,” he says. “That was some skillful rod work there, Angler Cupcake.”

Irene looks at Huck and she breaks into a smile and then so does Huck, and for one second, they are two people standing in the tropical sunshine while one hell of a majestic fish flops at their feet. For one second, they forget their hearts are broken.

It doesn’t end there—no, not even close. Huck puts the bull on ice and then casts his own rod, and Irene casts again, and they both get fish on. Two more mahi. Again, they cast. Huck gets a hit right away, Irene a few minutes later. Two more mahi. Irene asks if there’s a head and Huck says, “There is down below. No paper in the bowl, please.” Irene comes up a few minutes later, pops the top off a Red Stripe, and casts a line. She gets a fish on.

It’s insane. Insanely wonderful. They have six mahi, eight, twelve. Huck brings in a barracuda, which he throws back, and Irene brings in a mahi that has been bitten clean in half.

“Shark,” Huck says. He unhooks the half fish and throws it back.

“Oh yeah?” Irene says. He thinks maybe he scared her, but she casts another line.

Fourteen, sixteen, seventeen mahi.

Thank you, LeeAnn, he thinks. For the past five years, every time he’s caught a fish, he’s thanked his wife, because he believes she’s helping from above. Silly, he knows.

They take a break and Huck offers Irene one of the Cuban sandwiches, which she accepts gratefully. He thinks maybe they’ll talk, but Irene takes her sandwich to the bow of the boat, on the side with the shade, and Huck lets her be. He does wonder what she’s thinking about. Is she contemplating the horizon, wondering what happens when we die?

He would like to explain to her how extraordinary today is. Seventeen mahi! Maybe she understands, or maybe she thinks fishing with Huck is always like this. At any rate, she returns to the stern, pulls a bottle out of the water, and casts a line.

At three thirty, he tells her it’s time to go.

“Yes,” she says. “I’m sure my sons will be wondering about me.”

Sons? he thinks. She has sons. He wants to ask how many and how old they are—but there isn’t time. He has to pick up Maia. Today has been magical, nearly supernatural, and restorative the way he’d hoped. But unfortunately, real life awaits.