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Come dawn, Cal is going to be at that river. If he wants the men to keep him abreast of any developments, he can’t sit back like Johnny and let other people do the dirty work. He has to be right in there beside them, the whole way.

If Trey shows up and sees him standing there, up to his knees in water and gold dust and intrigue, she’ll feel like he’s been lying to her. He revises his ideas. At some point this evening, he needs to bring up the subject.

“Need to zoom closer,” Trey says. “He’s not clear enough.”

“It’s got face detect,” Cal says. “Not sure it works on zombies, but if you’ve got people in the frame, it’ll automatically focus in on their faces.”

Trey doesn’t respond to that. She fiddles with dials, tries another shot, and examines the display critically. The scarecrow gapes out at them, in such precise detail that they can see the drips of fake blood on its teeth. Trey nods, satisfied.

“The buttons can light up,” Cal says, “if it’s dark. So you can see what you’re doing. You gonna want that?”

Trey shrugs. “Dunno yet.”

“It’s this key here,” Cal says. “You oughta try it out in the dark somewhere, before you actually go out shooting. Just in case the buttons light up brighter’n you might want them to be.”

Trey turns to look at him, a sharp questioning look. For a second Cal thinks she’s going to say something, but then she nods and turns back to the camera.

“ ’S heavy,” she says.

“Yeah. You need to make sure you’re settled somewhere you can keep your hand good and steady.”

Trey tests out different ways of bracing her elbow on her knee. “Might need a wall,” she says. “Or a rock or something.”

“Listen,” Cal says. “You remember when we talked about what if someone tries to make you do stuff you don’t want to do?”

“Go for the nads,” Trey says, squinting through the viewfinder. “Or the eyes.”

“No,” Cal says. “I mean, yeah, sure, if you need to. Or the throat. But I mean if people try to get you to do drugs or booze. Or dumb shit like, I dunno, breaking into old buildings.”

“I’m not gonna do drugs,” Trey says flatly. “And I’m not gonna get drunk.”

“I know that,” Cal says. He notices automatically that Trey didn’t say she’s not planning to drink, or for that matter break into abandoned buildings, but those can wait. “But remember we talked about what if people try to pressure you?”

“They don’t,” Trey reassures him. “They don’t give a shite. More for them. And my mates don’t do drugs anyway, only hash sometimes, ’cause they’re not fuckin’ thick.”

“Right,” Cal says. “Good.” Somehow this conversation seemed a lot simpler the last time they had it, a year or so ago, fishing in the river. Now, with Johnny Reddy all over everything, it feels like rocky and complicated territory. “But if anyone ever does. You could handle that, right?”

“I’d tell ’em to fuck off,” Trey says. “Look at this.”

Cal looks at the photo. “Looks good,” he says. “If you want the trees in the background clearer, you can play around with this a little bit. What I’m saying about pressure is, you can do the same thing with adults. If an adult ever tries to rope you into something you don’t like the looks of, you’ve got every right to tell him to fuck off. Or her. Whoever.”

“Thought you wanted me to be mannerly,” Trey says, grinning.

“Right,” Cal says. “You can tell them to kindly fuck off.”

“I never like the looks of my Irish homework,” Trey points out. “Can I tell the teacher—”

“Nice try,” Cal says. “People fought and died so you could learn your own language. I don’t know the ins and outs, but that’s what Francie tells me. So you do your Irish.”

“I’ve loads of Irish,” Trey says. “An bhfuil cead agam dul go dtí an leithreas.”

“That better not be Irish for ‘kindly fuck off.’ ”

“Find out. Say it to Francie next time.”

“I bet it doesn’t mean anything,” Cal says. He’s slightly reassured by the fact that Trey is in a good mood, but only slightly. Trey’s sensors for danger are miscalibrated, or not hooked up right, or something: she can identify a dangerous situation without necessarily recognizing any need to back away from it. “You just made it up.”

“Did not. It means ‘can I go to the toilet.’ ”

“Damn,” Cal says. “That sounds fancier’n it has any right to. You could tell someone to kindly fuck off in Irish, and they’d probably take it as a compliment.”

Rip lets out a bark that has a growl mixed in. Cal turns fast. He feels Trey tense beside him.

Johnny Reddy is walking out of the late sun towards them. His long shadow across the stubbled field makes him look like a tall man, moving closer at a slow glide.

Cal and Trey get to their feet. Cal says, before he knows he’s going to, “You don’t have to go with him. You can stay here.”

Rip lets out another bark. Cal puts a hand on his head. “Nah,” Trey says. “Thanks.”

“OK,” Cal says. His throat hurts on the words. “Just so you know.”

“Yeah.”

Johnny lifts his arm in a wave. Neither of them waves back.