By Bret Lott
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Epub ISBN: 978-0-553-90523-6
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Extra resources for Dead Low Tide
My name is Huger Dillard. You say it YOU-gee, not like it’s spelled. When I was a kid and people would ask about it, I’d tell them I heard it was French. That’s all. But then I went off to college, started after what my friends used to call an edumacation. By friends I mean the ones I used to have, before my mom and I moved out of the old neighborhood and into the new one. It’s a different set I run with now, if you’d even call them a set, or if you’d call what I have to do with them running. I’m twenty-seven now, and still living at home though, like every one of us still hanging out with Mom and Pop at the ranch, I’ve got my reasons.
Just pull in the plank,” he said, and here he was poling us out, digging in hard to warp us off the mud. Then we were free, and I squatted, set down the book bag and dragged at the plank, heaved it in and under the center seat. “Get that radio out,” he called to Jessup, his words way too loud. Something was up in him, a rush, I could see with the solid jab he made at the mud beneath us, and the hard lean into the pole, the pull to get us off and out as fast as he could do it. But then we stopped hard, a sudden cold halt of the boat, and I looked behind me, back to the few feet of water between us and land.
I’d been here before, knew the bottom didn’t come up until the very end. I quick turned back at Unc, saw he was looking down and to the left, the bill of the Braves ball cap he always wore part of that silhouette now, him in profile to me. He’d touched something down there, had the pole up out of the water, held it with both hands like he was ready to gig a frog. And then I could feel that the jolt hadn’t meant the bottom at all, and that we were still floating free, still inching closer to that pluff mud and where I’d have to heave the block to anchor us in.