Lean Season

The fire returned to the young man's eyes—almost. He looked around the shattered dock, at the riddled corpse and the oily, bloody water, at the spitting power lines and the dead lights, the peeling boardwalk on the shore.

He shook his head. "No, it's not. It—it doesn't pretend, like you. It's gonna kill us, that's all." He stepped closer. "Can’t you see that? You posing hillbilly? The spill's given it a—a lean season. It's sick, and it's hungry, and …"

He glanced at the corpse. "And we probably just killed its mate."