Bleeker unhooked the ice shack, a red and white tin number that had a little kitchen space inside-a few cabinets and a counter barely enough for a toaster oven or microwave-but it was empty this trip. He opened one of the catch covers on the floor and worked at drilling the hole. He got hammered on Rum and Cokes while he drilled, forgot to hook up the generator for the lights and heat. At some point when it was too dark to see, he tried to get the plastic container of ashes opened, spilling some here and there before clumsily tipping it over the hole. Most of the dust fell into the lake and drifted along under the surface of the ice. The rest turned into mud and clogged the hole.

Bleeker mock-saluted and sat down hard on his canvas chair. He had left his cell phone and radio in the car. The wind was howling outside like souls in hell, snow piling on one side of the shack. Bleeker opened another bottle of rum, another bottle of pop, and sipped himself to sleep.

That's how Trish found him the next morning.

*

She said his name. Said it again, louder. Took it up a notch each time until he blinked his eyes and yawned. She wasn't about to go rustle him since he was gripping his. 40 caliber pistol in one hand, an empty plastic cup in the other.

When Bleeker finally realized who it was, he turned away, let out a big sigh. He'd come here to get away from the never-ending fight. Seemed like Trish always had a new knife to stab him with, some old wounds ready to be reopened and poked. Jesus, why couldn't it be simple? Got tired of life with one woman. Pay her enough so she won't be left high and dry. Move on with new life, new partner, new possibilities. It's not like he was actively trying to hurt her. Shit, he was hoping she'd been thinking of her Plan B, too, since it had been obvious for at least the last eight or so years that the love had been sucked clean out of the relationship. So why go another ten years filling it back up with bile?