He stood in the doorway and thought about it. He'd be a retired cop living up north, enjoying the solitude and silence. He'd be fishing on the middle branch of the Au Sable one day, casting a muddler into the stream, enjoying the day, and then he'd think of the gulch case,and it would all come back to him, and he'd remember storming out of the interrogation room into this bright, clear, beautiful light of a fall day in Bay City. He'd cast again into a riffle, thinking about the fish while, at the same time, trying to tweeze apart the facts of the case, remembering the voids, the gaping space between the statements and his failure to get the story straight.