Chapter Eleven

Lawrence had fashioned a rudimentary fishing pole out of a twisted stick, vine and an awful looking hook, if you could call it that. It certainly had a sharp point. He’d spent a night whittling it. Janice didn’t know where he’d procured the whiskey he drank while doing so. His supply seemed endless. His skills in hunting for food, on the other hand, were, well, less than endless.

They spent hours fishing by the river while Alistair hunted for deer and rabbit. Lawrence did not say much. Janice liked it that way. They caught one fish.