On the eightieth day.
The chilly morning wind swept past Klay's sturdy log shelter by the Chilco Lakefront, producing a dull howl.
Inside, Klay's figure moved in the dim light, his actions skillful yet exhibiting a mechanical numbness.
He first added a few pieces of split dry wood to the stove that was about to burn out, then put on a heavy coat and walked out of the shelter.
Then he walked to the edge of the lake, where he had expended a large amount of energy setting up a stinging net, skillfully retrieving it with a retractable rope, though it held a thin layer of ice.
The stinging net caught nothing; the edges of the lake were beginning to freeze, soon rendering the net unusable, but Klay seemed indifferent to it.
He then gently pulled up the fishing hook he had set up from the icy lake waters.
On the hook hung a pike weighing about three or four pounds, weakly wagging its tail.
This should have been a good catch, enough to meet his day's protein needs.
