Blocking the wind with his torso, Henry strikes the third match and leans forward over the bowl of a hollow pinestump, half hugging the crude hearth in which he intends to boil their string of fish into a chowder.
Henry stands and watches helplessly as the small fire he has birthed flows like brilliant liquid over the tree stump's ragged edges and into the dead grass and pine needles that carpet the barren slope from the water's edge to the lip of the woods.