Disclaimer: The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris. I'm only borrowing her characters, not profiting from this story.

Congrats to the winners of the 2013 IWTS Contest: Ooshka, FiniteAnarchy, LinBer93, Magsmacdonald, Belleviolette, and Merick

And thanks again to Nonto94 for beta-ing.

It wasn't long before I felt the tremors of the sinkhole.

"A gator got one of Terry's catahoulas last night," Sam informed me one afternoon without warning, before I even had time to stash my purse.

"Oh, no!"

"Yeah. He went out to his shed late at night to work, and the dog wandered off at some point. By the time Terry realized he was gone and called for him, the gator must have already got him."

"That's terrible!"

There were no other words for it as Sam and I stood there together, the news settling in. It was a horrible thing to happen to anyone, but worse for Terry. A Vietnam veteran who'd been plucked and twisted by the grubby fingers of war, Terry had personal demons that got the best of him time and again. Frankly, for both of our sakes, I tried to stay out of his way. He'd chat when he was in a good mood, most often sharing stories about the biggest love of his life, his dogs. Every now and then, when his internal stars aligned just so and the bar was empty, he'd say affectionately, "Sister…" dangling the sentence before hauling out a new box of napkins or shifting aside a stack of chairs for me.

"Maybe the dog's just missing?" I asked.

"No." Sam shook his head emphatically. "Terry showed me the fur in the yard. Damn close to his house."

Poor dog hadn't stood a chance, and I could guess how much Terry was beating himself up over it, blaming himself for not being more careful. He'd probably gotten caught up in a job and lost track of time. Had a few moments of mental peace, only to find...

I shuddered.

Sam rubbed his hands across the top of his head, seeming to have forgotten he'd recently gotten it cut short. "He's asking for you. That's good, right? At least he's not in a heap." Sam wasn't exaggerating.

"Anyone call Victor's office?"

"No. Hell, no." He looked appalled.

"I know, I know." I held up my hands.

"Can you imagine Terry letting strangers on his property? With guns?" Sam continued. "Not that Victor would actually do anything for him."

"All right." I held up my hands again.

Most folks around here jumped to help out their neighbors. But Victor Madden, of the Louisiana Department of Wildlife and Fisheries, was an ass, doling out nuisance alligator complaint numbers like they were golden tickets and stepping in only when it served his own purpose. He liked his power that much.

I wanted to help Terry, but coming up with a plan would not be easy. Outside of hunting season, with no tags, I had no right to be hunting a gator, even with Terry's permission to be on his property. And maybe the gator was already long-gone, having passed through Terry's yard on his way from one body of water to another. That's what the bulls do during mating season: travel, looking for food and an accepting female. Usually it's the smaller ones getting booted out of their territory by a bigger bull.

"I'll give him a call. He's got a decent boat out there, right?"

"What?" Sam gave his extra short hair one more rub. "Yeah."

"That's something good. Last thing I want to do is tangle with a gator from a pirogue."

vV\/vv\/Vv

"He's struck again," Terry's voice rasped. At 6:44 the next morning.

"Not Annie!" She was Terry's one remaining catahoula.

He made a choked noise. "No. The thing dropped a mauled-up gator behind the house."

"Dead?"

"It ain't moving ever again."

"I'll be there," I said. "I'm on my way now."

After throwing on some old clothes, I grabbed my gear and a powdered doughnut. Coffee would have to wait until later.

Passing Arlene's trailer, I reached Terry's home by the parish road. His front porch was laden, so full of parts and stuff, overflow from his garage and shed, that it threatened to tip the whole thing forward, flat on its facade. Nothing was junk, anything a commodity, tradable for a needed item or service among people patching together a living and seeing to each others' needs.

"You can't find new parts for old models. Only the new models," Terry had complained one time. "And that don't make sense, 'cuz it's the old ones that bust, not the new ones."

He had a fair point. I wondered how much longer Gran's refrigerator would hold out, old enough that she'd still called it an icebox.

When I pulled into the rutted parking area at the front, I honked my horn to let him know I was there, and then headed straight to the back. Terry appeared at his window as I began scouting for the gator. Soon enough, I found him not too far from the woodpile, partially hidden by tall grass and weeds.

He was pale all over. A yellow gator.

Yellow gators are rare. Considered bad luck, too, by a lot of folks around here. Terry hadn't mentioned that part of his problem when he'd called. But this particular gator had tangled with his own bad luck, in the form of something much larger than himself. He was missing an eye, a whole back leg, and a chunk of his tail. Portions of the armored plates on his back were squishy-soft, crushed to a pulp. The flies had found him—alighting, buzzing, alighting. He stank of rotted flesh and the swamp.

"I told you so," Terry said behind me.

I jumped, not having heard him leave his house. "That's for sure. Dead as a doornail. Yellow, too."

"Ain't no gator a good gator." Terry didn't meet my eyes, which was fine by me. Business was business, and for now, dead gator disposal was the only agenda item. Luckily, he was just a little thing, as far as gators go, though still plenty big.

"All right. Let me grab my gear and I'll…"

Terry started walking away, in no mood to have a hands-on experience. "Tools are in the shed. Take whatever you need."

"You got a pond that-a-way, through the woods?" Terry was forced to look back at me briefly.

"Yeah." He pointed with a floppy hand in the opposite direction. "You'll hit the bayou not too far the other way."

Which meant that Terry's house was in the middle of an alligator crossroads. I grabbed what was left of the gator's tail, clenched it under my arm, and started pulling toward the side of the house, near the trail that cut through a wooded section to the pond. He was small, only a couple hundred pounds, and no match for an established bull, but still a couple hundred pounds of dead weight.

I dropped the gator once I got around to the side, and then ran to my car to tug on my boots and grab my rifle, in case the live beast showed up. The rifle had been my grandfather's, or at least the man I had known as my grandfather for most of my life. Rusted and dinged, it nonetheless was sited-in well and did the job it was intended for. I carried it proudly in the bright pink alligator skin scabbard made by my great grandfather and left behind by my cousin Claudine.

I wished she were with me right now, dressed in her wrinkle-free, odor-repellent clothing—only she could pull off outdoor wear so well—shaking her glossy dark hair. She'd given up on alligator hunting well before she'd died, but she wouldn't have hesitated to help me out now.

She would have known how to help Great Grandfather, too. A Lost Soul of a different kind.

But those worries were for another time and place. When dead alligator disposal wasn't on the agenda. Or illegal alligator hunting in Victor Madden's territory.

Or harvesting rotten gator meat. I was hacking a chunk from the tail when a passing delivery truck came to a lurching stop.

Duff McClure hopped out of the front seat. "Hol-y!" he exclaimed as he crossed the yard. "Whatcha got there, Sookie Stackhouse? You got yourself a yellow gator?"

Crap.

"Hey, Duff."

"You ever seen anything like that? Bad luck, ain't? Man, and it looks like somethin' got into it good. Had to have been another gator. A monster. Man! That gator is crr-uushed. Whatcha gonna do with it?"

"Oh, just gettin' it outta here, so's it don't stink to high heaven." After I chopped off some tail meat, I was going to bury the carcass to not attract any other critters, and then bait the secluded pond for the menacing gator. Since he seemed to have found the little gator pretty tasty last night, maybe he'd come back for another snack.

Duff's eyes flickered to my scarred hand holding the hatchet. "You need help? Heck, I'd even take him off your hands. That'll catch me some alligator gar."

I'd never heard of fishing for alligator gar using gator meat, but then again, everyone has his own favorite way. Jason even used a bow sometimes, so... I considered. If I shooed Duff away, he'd only gossip anyway. But if he helped out, became complicit, maybe he'd keep his mouth shut. Maybe. Terry ought to be okay with him—he knew Duff—so long as Duff wasn't carrying a rifle or snooping around too much.

And as for digging a hole fit for a gator, as cathartic as it might be…

I switched my hatchet to my other hand and stretched my fingers. "All right, sure. I got an extra pair of gloves in the car if you want them."

"Naw," he waved a hand. "I'll wash up at the Crawdad when I grab breakfast."

We set to work rolling the corpse in an old shower curtain from the shed, then lifting it into Duff's delivery truck. What a cargo he had this morning: dead gator and beer.

"I'll head straight home from here to drop him off," he assured me.

Then he accompanied me through the woods to hang a few bait lines around the secluded pond, where no one would likely notice. The place didn't look too promising, though. No trampled plants. No gator slide. Duff chattered, at odds with our task, gossiping about the shenanigans going on at the Kissing Post, the new local nightclub, his wife's latest pregnancy, and rumors about the sinkhole in the bayou south of Baton Rouge.

After we hung the last line, I broached the need for discretion.

"Hey, Duff, might be best if we keep this on the down-low, all right? What with Victor Madden being the way he is and all."

The pond held still, consenting, even as the lily pads worked their sneaky choke. Eventually this pond would be a suffocating field of them.

He nodded vigorously. "Sure, sure. I gotcha. No problem."

Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being observed from the nooks and crannies of the pond, through shaded leaf peepholes, burrowed mud holes, and notched crawlspaces. Places where creatures go to hunker down.

"You know, because if he catches wind that we're after a monster…"

Duff's head was still bobbing. "Right. Of course. I know. Victor."

"Mm-hmm. Victor likes to have tight control over his territory. Nobody hunts unless he says so."

I thought I'd been extra clear. We trekked out the way we came in, shook grubby hands—laughingly apologizing to each other—and said goodbye. Thanks. Have a good day. Yeah, what a morning. Best get going now.

But that yellow gator, unlucky after all, turned out to be too much for Duff to keep to himself.

vV\/vv\/Vv

"Claudette's gone." My great grandfather's shaking hand rose from his lap, hesitated, and then fell.

He just about broke my heart every time he realized his loss, pain and confusion fresh on his face. After many losses in his life, he remembered Claudette most, probably because she'd been with him nonstop for decades.

I pulled a bar stool closer to him and took his hand. "Yes, Claudette's gone," I answered simply, waiting to hear what he'd say next. Sometimes he'd move on from a particular idea just as quickly as he'd gotten there.

"She was…good." His eyes jumped, as though searching for the words midair. More and more these days, his ideas were somewhere out there, only half-formed when they managed to be spoken.

"Mm-hmm. Very smart. And she adored you. Always on your shoulder."

It was true. After Fintan, my biological grandfather, had died, his African Grey parrot hopped shoulders to spend over thirty years of her life perched atop Great Grandfather. From there, she oversaw the laying out of alligator hides, the cutting, and the sewing, a lot of it by hand.

Claudette could whistle and cackle, which she'd done freely, as if celebrating her good fortune at the top of the food chain. She was one to be reckoned with, for sure. Every now and then, she'd stop me in my tracks with an "I love you, dear," in my grandmother's voice.

Great Grandfather nodded and laughed, his attention sliding from his love for his pet to me. "Sookie," he said, squeezing my hand.

I squeezed him back.

He pointed at me. "You…"

The determined look that had enlivened his face with a surging idea suddenly drooped. His hand curled and fell to his lap again. Confusion flickered like someone was jiggling a loose wire. His clothes—standard black suit—were dusty and frayed. I wondered what had happened to the alligator vest he'd always worn.

"I'm glad you came to visit," I tried.

He smiled and looked around. "You work here."

"Yes. Claude dropped you off," I said.

At least, I assumed that was the case. From behind the bar, Sam gave me a nod and said, "About five minutes ago, right before you got here. Said he'd be quick."

"I'm sorry," I said to Sam. No use getting into a long conversation about it with him at the moment and adding to my great grandfather's confusion. Claude had gotten into a bad habit of dumping him when things got too inconvenient for him. No doubt it was tough taking care of my great grandfather, something Claude hadn't fully understood when he'd moved in with him, mooching off him, drawing down his bank account. And now with money so tight, there probably weren't a whole lot of options for caretaker support. Thank goodness for Claudine's nest egg.

"Sookie!" the bawdy voice of Mack Rattray called from the other side of the bar. "Heard you got yourself a yellow gator."

"Shitty luck," his wife Denise chimed in, laughing, as shouts scattered around the room. Already, the discussions were beginning over pitchers of beer.

"Ain't nothin' to be jokin' about," Rene Lenier admonished. He stepped closer to put his arm around me. "You ought to lay low for a while, don't you think? Not tempt anything."

"Thanks, Rene. Let me handle it, all right?"

"Just sayin'. Ain't nothing to be messin' with. Maybe there's somethin' to it. Yellow gator and all."

"Leviathan!" Grandfather burst out. He'd begun shifting in his seat, buttoning and unbuttoning his suit coat.

I put my hand on his arm and patted. "How about I get you something to eat? Would you like a steak?"

He hesitated with that searching look.

"I'm sorry we don't have any salmon," I said.

"You don't?"

"No, but Lafayette knows just how to cook your steak."

He nodded, still uncertain. "Y-yes, I'll have a steak."

I caught Sam's eye before ducking into the kitchen, bracing myself for a little confrontation with Lafayette. Great Grandfather had barged in here one afternoon to complain about the ruined piece of flesh on his plate.

"Can I get a steak, rare, no seasoning?"

Lafayette didn't even look up from the cheese slices he was separating, his frosted eyelids fluttering violet petals. "Aw, hell no. I ain't never cooked nothin' that man liked. I'd have to butcher the steer straight on the plate and send it out still mooing. And you…" he pointed his spatula at me, must have read the exasperation on my face, and stopped.

"Aw…" He shook his head, leaving his work space to pull out a paper-wrapped package. "Here I go…This is me doin' somethin' I know is gonna bring me trouble." The steak sizzled as it hit the grill. "Right there, that's the sound of it. I can hear it. I can see it. I can smell it. And you…" He pointed at me again. "Standing there lookin' all…stirred up. Stirrin' me up." He shook his head again. "Yellow gator."

"I'd help Terry again in a heartbeat."

"Mm-hmm. And Duff and his big-ass mouth? Would you do that again too?"

"You better flip that."

"Aw…hell."

"Bird Man!" Shouts and greetings drifted into the kitchen.

"You hear that?" Lafayette said. "There's your trouble comin' home to roost."

I peeked through the kitchen door, and sure enough, saw Bill approaching the bar, chatting it up with Dusty Kolinchek. With hard work, he'd earned the trust and affection of locals, winning them over to help with his research on duck population trends.

"I need a wing from every duck you shoot this season," he'd told hunters when he'd first ventured into our area. The envelopes he'd passed around instructed respondents 'to sever the least damaged wing as closely as possible to the body and then mail it in ASAP, not wrapped in anything to discourage decay.'"

People thought he was plum crazy, collecting dead wings. And truth be told, all those wings were a little creepy. Over the past few years, well over a thousand of them. But he'd been a friendly new neighbor who'd been kind at the time I needed it most, when I'd been grieving the fresh loss of my gran. I hadn't minded spending afternoons with him taking him around the waterways I knew well to hunting camps to introduce him to the locals. As our friendship had grown into something more, he'd given me attention of the sort I'd never had before.

Problem was, as it turned out, sometimes his interests ran in the direction of more worldly, educated women. Problem was, he'd never come to terms with his own inclination. And problem was, he still saw to it to butt his nose in business it didn't belong.

Lafayette put Grandfather's steak on a plate—without any garnishes or anything else, the way he liked it—and handed it to me.

"Thank you, Lafayette."

"Mm-hmm. Just make sure I don't see it again."

I scurried to serve it before it cooled. When I entered the bar area, Bill's eyes met mine meaningfully, to make it known he wanted to talk. But even he could see I had my hands full.

"Dearest One," Great Grandfather said, hitching my breath with his sweeping, dramatic voice, the one I hadn't heard in a long time. Alzheimer's Disease was terrible. Truly terrible.

"Thank you for the steak." And then, strangely enough, he stood, left his plate on the bar, and simply started walking away, determined and purposeful.

"Where are you going?"

"I know you'll follow me."

He headed straight for an empty booth at the back of the bar. He was so absorbed in getting there that he clipped Jeff Labeff's chair and drew the attention of several bar patrons.

"Crazy old coot," they muttered.

Oh, man, I was really stretching the limits of Sam's patience today.

I snagged Arlene's arm as I passed her and asked her to check my tables. When she rolled her eyes, I offered up another night of babysitting.

Great Grandfather had slid into a booth. As soon as I joined him, he said, "I need something from you." His thick white hair fell around his shoulders, framing a fine-lined face, so otherworldly beautiful now, when his eyes weren't hopping with confusion.

He crooked a finger, indicating I should lean forward. Hesitantly, I did, though apparently not far enough, as his hand grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me toward him. I couldn't help but flinch.

He smiled thinly, and then stroked my cheek and spoke so closely, his breath peppered my ear. "As you may know, my memory has begun to slip. I've become…forgetful."

"Yes," I answered simply, since he had more to say.

"It is my desire to leave this place."

"Claude will come and get you. I'll call him if you'd like."

"No. Claude needn't be involved. In fact, I'd prefer not."

He released me, leaned back, and watched, like he was waiting for something to happen. For a switch, I was the one floundering, while Great Grandfather appeared completely sane and fully functioning. Maddenly whole. If he could do it now, why not always?

My arm slapped on the table and shoved aside a set of utensils rolled in a napkin before stopping. He'd had moments of lucidity like this before, gone in the bat of an eye. Just thinking about it froze me in place, like I might disconnect that loose wire for once and for all by simply breathing.

I wanted to tell him all kinds of things in this little window of time. Maybe they'd sink in now, become a new bit of memory that stayed. Foolish of me, I knew, and anyway, my great grandfather seemed to have his own agenda at the moment.

"I can't leave here when I'm on shift," I tried. "And if you don't want Claude, well…" I supposed I could try calling Tara. Or maybe…. I cast a quick glance around the bar to look for another option.

"Sookie." He sounded disappointed. He waved his hand impatiently. "I want to leave here for good."

"For good..."

Suddenly I understood enough to know that I didn't want to understand, that he definitely wasn't talking about leaving Merlotte's. Or even checking into his private headspace forever after. I felt a bubble open up around us as the noises of Merlotte's receded.

"Y-you…" A lump caught in my throat. There was too much to say at once. One of these moments—maybe now—would be the last moment of having him, the man I'd known and who'd known me, with all of our shared past.

"You know what I mean, Dearest One."

I'd heard every sound his mouth made, his lips smacking and curling around Dearest One. Creepy. Verging on humanity, but not quite there.

"Grandfather," I tried again as I blinked through a wash of tears. We'll talk about it later, I wanted to say, which only made me tear up more. Later was a dicey proposition; there was only now.

"I do not wish to cause any trouble to my loved ones here."

My mouth gaped. "Trouble?" I repeated, incredulous. Given what he was asking, he had a different understanding of the word trouble.

"It'll only get worse," he answered. "I'll become…someone I don't want to be. And I know I'm not capable of doing it myself anymore. I waited too long."

I reached out to clasp my hands around his, a gesture that felt wholly inadequate. Things would surely get much worse. "I love you and I always will, no matter what happens, or…who you become."

"I know, and that's why I've come to you."

"What you're asking…" My throat closed, blocking me from getting out the terrible words. When I could finally swallow, I said instead, "I don't want you to…suffer." My voice cracked, and suffer clanged with far more power than I'd wanted to give it. I had to look away from him.

He patted my hand. "You understand," he said, with such brightness, I abruptly stiffened.

"I'm trying to understand." How much did he understand? Could he possibly fathom how much he was asking of me? How could he come here to work and ask for my help like this, like he simply wanted me to stop by the Grab-It-Kwik for him and pick up a gallon of milk? Maybe he'd even planned to corner me when he knew I was busy just to escape any major conversation about it…

I stopped myself, ashamed; I was getting angry at a sick man whose brain was being whittled down to the stem by a disease he had no control over.

"Grandfather…" I had a sudden urge to call him Paw-Paw, though I didn't because I knew he'd hate it. "I won't leave you. This is a problem for us to figure out. Together."

He smiled and looked around. "Yes, together."

My heart sank as I began to suspect he'd already slipped away from our conversation. "Do you understand?"

He was still smiling. "Yes."

I leaned toward him, to try to hold his attention and keep him here. Stay with me.

"Hello," he said pleasantly.

"We were talking about you wanting to…leave," I pressed, knowing how desperate I sounded.

He looked around. "You work here."

I nodded. "Mm-hmm." It was all I could manage to say without crying out, feeling sadder and lonelier for losing him all over again, and worried about how I was going to help him, and mad too that he'd shouldered me with an impossible request. And yet I'd go back to him with fresh hope; he was that tantalizing.

"Claudette's gone," he said, his eyes wide.

"Yes, I'm sorry." I stood under the weight of my new problems and waited for that old familiar numbness to wash over me. My feet began to move on auto-pilot. "Come with me. I have something for you."

We linked arms and made our way across the room to where his plate was waiting for him. He looked at it like he didn't know what it was.

"This steak is for you."

"Thank you."

"You can sit right here." I patted the bar stool.

He climbed up and simply looked at his plate.

"You may eat that if you'd like."

He nodded. His fingertips fumbled with the handles of his knife and fork. I realized he might not even be able to cut it. There were people watching us, with nods and murmurs. Jane Bodehouse actually got up from her stool to take the empty one next to him. She patted his arm and said too loudly, "'S okay. That happens to me too, from time to time, and I ain't even that old."

I grabbed his plate to say I was going to warm it up for him. Lafayette was perceptive enough to hold his tongue as he watched me cut it into small pieces. Halfway done, I realized this was no way to salvage his dignity.

The whole thing landed in the trash, uneaten. He won't remember it anyway, I thought, which gave a big tug to my conscience. Then again, maybe using his memory loss to his advantage was the best way to work with the situation. I just didn't know.

One thing I did know was that Claude needed to hurry his sorry ass back here. I called his cell phone and left a message to that effect. When he showed up not five minutes later, I didn't have the energy to get into it with him—nor was work the place for it—though I did make arrangements to see Great Grandfather in two days, on my day off.

I kissed his cheek. "Claude is taking you home. I'll see you again soon. I will come visit you."

He nodded and shuffled out with Claude, looking decidedly older. I boogied to catch up on my tables, since I still needed to pay my bills. And I might need to use Claudine's nest egg for medical care. No, no. Not gonna think about that. I shoved everything out of my mind—Terry's problem gator, which everyone seemed to know about now, as well as Great Grandfather's request and his well-being—but unfortunately, other troubles kept cropping up. For starters, there was Bill, hopping from table to table as he greeted everyone and bumping into me more than once; he looked at me with clear intent every time.

And then Mrs. Quinn, the mother of another one of my ex-boyfriends came in, followed shortly by Callista, who settled herself right between Jane Bodehouse and Mrs. Quinn at the bar. Now there was a real bad combination if I ever saw one. As much as I didn't feel like dealing with any of them, I made a quick call to John, in order to cut this one off at the knees.

I was behind the bar, catching up on some chores, when Bill finally cornered me.

"I heard of your troubles."

"Yeah? Which ones would those be?" I was in no mood.

Bill gave me a level stare. "You need me to throw Victor off?"

I hated his answer, which managed to say both that he knew I was doing something illegal and that he had the power and connection I might need to get out of a jam.

"There's no need." I reached for the bin of rolled cutlery, which always seemed to be running low.

"Sweetheart," he said with pity in his voice. "Terry's dog? A mauled yellow gator? Duff McClure? Victor's bound to find out and put it all together."

"It was the right thing to do." I gritted my teeth. "And I had nothing to do with Duff. He was just there at…the wrong time."

"All right," he said, surprisingly agreeably. "But let's think about this. With word getting round about a yellow gator being mauled …"

I stopped him, annoyed he was pointing out the obvious. "I know. Victor takes care of Victor. He loves to step in when he can make a big splash."

"I wouldn't be surprised if he shows up one night on Terry's property, scouting. It would be too much for him to resist."

I stopped my motions, the stack of menus I'd laid on the bar only half sorted. "Terry's going through a bad patch. His dog…" I didn't need to explain how he'd come unglued by someone like Victor prowling around on his property, even if Victor was there to catch the gator that had killed his dog. Victor, that snake in the grass…

Bill nodded. "I'll see what I can do. I saw some signs of a big gator at Magnolia Creek, near the country club."

We were on the same page, then. "Right. Keep Victor distracted, away from Terry, with bigger, flashier causes."

But Bill had one more thing to say. "And no more gator hunting with Duff."

I nearly raised a stack of menus to smash over his head, but just then, John Quinn's voice arose from the bar. "No, Mom, come on, it's time to go." Jane watched with bemusement, having had her ass hauled out of here more than once by her son, Marvin. When he looked to me to mouth the words thank you, I gave him a little wave of acknowledgment and looked away. This kind of thing was exactly what I'd wanted to stay out of when I'd broken up with him.

"The swamp's not happy," Callista was saying loudly, to the beat of Jane's obliging, bobbing head. I wanted to smack Callista, too. "Spitting out a yellow gator. No telling what's coming next. And they say that sinkhole could go down hundreds of feet."

Mrs. Quinn resisted as John tugged on her. "Come on, Mom," he said, meeting my eyes. He sounded surprisingly limp for someone with such physical strength: muscles galore, along with an ability to fight. I hadn't needed to see it—the fighting, that is—to believe it. But she was his weakness. His sister too.

They'd struggled through more than their fair share of terrible times. And I had no patience for them: Mrs. Quinn, John, and Frannie. They came as a package deal.

"You, of all people," Quinn had said when I'd abruptly cut my ties with him.

And that had been the point. I did understand. Too much. But I couldn't help them; I didn't have the power to change anything. I'd only get dragged down with them. Call it cold. Selfish. Heartless. Quinn had.

Mrs. Quinn's voice rose, agitated, but her body had started moving toward the door.

"I have some time at the end of the week," Bill was saying. "We can take my skiff through the section of the bayou near Terry's house. Do some scouting. I know a spot about a half mile west where we can put her in."

"All right. Sure. Thanks."

Resisting Bill didn't even cross my mind again. I needed to save my energy for all of the problems that had been added to my hit list today. A helping hand from Bill, with his own LDWF connections and experience on the bayou, sounded like just the thing for crossing off multiple items. I even started to relax under the lightened load.

Things weren't so bad. I'd handled worse and had come out all right. Swamp water was in my blood, after all.

It was in that frame of mind, as the night drew to a close, that I let my biggest problem enter my thoughts, the one I had yet to put in my own words. My great grandfather wanted me to help him die.

I went on autopilot—wiping down tables, refilling salt-and-pepper shakers and ketchup bottles, collecting and discarding daily special menus—as my great grandfather's request started to take form in my mind. No, of course I didn't know what I was going to do or how I could help him. I was only just starting to size up this challenge.

But it was okay. One way or another, I could figure this out.