He stooped, attended to the fire, and when the coffeepot perked he withdrew a cigar the size of a fat fountain pen from a Ziploc bag and carefully nibbled the plug. When the coffee smelled done, he turned off the camp stove, poured a tin cupful, and wedged the pot in the coals. Then he went down to the shore and found a seat on a granite ledge. There would be no sunrise today to go with his morning coffee. Not even a shiny spot in the overcast.

A match flared and migrant smoke from Spanish Honduras mingled with the steaming Colombian bean. Cigars were a weaning vice-all tease and foreplay-no inhaling. They got him off the cigarettes and now he worried that the thing that would get him off the cigars would be Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.

“Good morning, I think,” announced a voice that ended in a cough. Turning, Broker saw Milton Dane’s short salt-and-pepper hair poke through his tent flap. Milt was nursing a cold, which did nothing to diminish his childish delight as he looked at the forest made over into frosted parsley.

Milt at forty-five stood six foot one in pile underwear and felt boot-liners. Broad shouldered, deep-chested, and deliberate in movement; he collected a cup of coffee and joined Broker on the sloping rock beach. He drew his knuckles across the stubble on his square chin and shivered. “Jesus, it’s cold.”

“Yeah, and I got a feeling we’re going to see some big, cold snowflakes,” Broker said.

“Still beats the office.” Milt toasted Broker with his coffee cup.

“Agreed. But maybe we should stay put till this front works on through,” Broker said.

“No pain, no gain,” Milt said with a grin.

“Right. And pneumonia is God’s way of telling you to get out of the rain,” Broker said.

Milt was unmoved. Being a serious white-water kayaker, he refused to be impressed with the concerns of flat-water paddlers. He pointed to Broker’s tent and said, “Heads up.”