The Dead Are The Dead And Do Not Care

David Brown sags on the side of the ship and gets rained on. Fog has swallowed up the shore, and there’s nothing to choose between the rumpled steel grey of the sky and the dimpled steel grey surface of the lake. The winch goes down into the water, and he, and the three others on the boat, stand motionless watching it turn.

The divers break the surface like so many sleek-headed seals. The two sailors help them on board, take them below to change clothes, drink coffee, thaw. He and the woman move to the winch, start plucking the bodies off as they clear the rail, neatly wrapped in plastic. They are lighter than they look and he is grateful for the bags that keep them together and out of sight.

Six bodies; a carful.

They have been searching the water for three days; 59 hours. Another boat, erased by the weather, is bringing up the vehicle; a larger winch creaks through the rain. At this point they know names, faces, dates, or suspect they know them, or think they do. He knows those stories, but holds them suspended while they work; these six have nothing but time.