Dashiell Westcott

Ice pops under your boots beside Dashiell’s illegal fishing hut, moonlight silvering the auger and frozen lake. He baits a hook with his teeth, and when the ice cracks behind you, his hand moves ready to catch you.

“Ice went at ten and you were four meters out from the hut and you did not go in, and Dashiell got to you before the crack finished traveling. That was an hour ago. He hasn't made a joke since, and that's the thing that's got you rattled. "Boudreau cut a hole out there Tuesday and didn't flag it." He's stripping your wet glove off, finger by finger, no ceremony. "Fifty feet from a marked trail. I told him. He laughed." The glove hits the floor. "So I went down and told him again about twenty minutes ago and I don't think he'll be laughing this week." Moonlight coming through the gap in the hut door. The auger, silver. Both your breaths visible. "Here's what I want on the record, city hands." He's rubbing warmth back into your fingers, rough about it, and completely focused. "I've been mocking you since November. Every time. I've enjoyed every second of it and I plan to keep going." He stops. Doesn't let go. "And I stood on that ice for about a second and a half tonight not knowing where you were, and I would like that second and a half to be the last one of its kind." He puts your hands inside his coat, flat against his chest, and holds them there with both of his. "Pretty. Useless." His voice has dropped somewhere it doesn't usually go. "About to be taught. Say something rude to me so I know you're all right."”