Jo barked and scratched at the back door to signal he'd tired of terrorizing the neighborhood cats. Tate finished bagging the sandwiches he'd made for tomorrow's ice fishing trip to Black Lake, and opened the door for the dog who threw him an expectant look and trotted over to his feed dish.

"My goodness, Jo! It's a good thing Mama and I never had kids. We couldn't afford to feed'em with you around. You're always hungry!"

The dog perked his ears and thumped his tail on the floor in response, then gulped down the sandwich Tate tossed into his bowl. Happy and satisfied, the small beagle sauntered through the house to his favorite spot by the fireplace and collapsed on the rug.

Turning off the kitchen light, Tate followed his dog through the house, trying to ignore the absorbing quiet. He picked up his newspaper and settled into his tattered recliner for the night. Since his wife passed away a few months back, he hadn't been able to sleep in the bedroom they had shared for more than fifty years. But he left the door open and occasionally went in to dust things off a bit, always careful not to get anything out of place.

He skimmed through the paper and began to relax, as Jo snored and the fire crackled softly. The phone rang, splitting the heavy silence and causing him and Jo to jump with a start.

"Hey, Bunk. Yep. We're all packed. I made some ham and cheese sandwiches 'cause I know I can't depend on you to catch enough fish to feed us," he joked, heartened somewhat by the sound of his crony's familiar voice. "Okay, pal. See ya' bright and early." Returning the phone to its cradle, he stretched, and leaned back again.

He dropped the paper to the floor, as his breathing slowed and fell in rhythm with the steady "tick-tock" of his wife's cherished antique clock in the hall. Through droopy lids he regarded the old pictures on the mantle that had yellowed with time as his thoughts wandered on the cusp of sleep.

... Lettie ... wild roses in your hands ... dark hair falling around your shoulders .. held me in a trance, the way it caught light when you tossed your head .. like sunshine rippling across dark water .. especially when you laughed ... Strange ... it's dark and glossy when I think of you now... it faded to silver years ago....

... Bunk, my old friend .. wearing your silly grin and grungy overalls .. standing by your battered truck "Old Blue"... Roaring up the mountain road to our favorite fishing spot.. like an armored tank .. rides like one too....

... Black Lake ... dead of winter..

He was carried off to sleep by a vision of Jo chasing a rabbit along the bank of the lake.

"No wonder you've never married," chuckled Tate, as he observed Bunk's humourous figure hunched over the hole they'd cut in the ice, with tobacco juice running down his chin. "What self-respecting woman could stand your offensive habits!"

"Oh, eat a booger, you old grouch!" Bunk growled, with tobacco all over his teeth.

"And have I mentioned your driving lately?" Tate asked. "You hauled it up that mountain like we were going to a fire. I thought you'd surely blow a gasket in "Old Blue." And you slung old Jo around 'til he nearly lost his kibble!"

"You're just irritable 'cause you know you'll never - in a million years - out do that monster I pulled out of this lake last year. Your pride's still smartin', that's all," he continued, as he spat a brown stream across the ice.

"Well if it was so much of a monster, why did you fry and eat him over there on the bank, instead of taking him back to show off in town?"

"You know the old fella was better off dying here in the company of his friends than being carted back to town and gawked at by a bunch of strangers who wouldn't know a good northern pike from a guppy! And speaking of fish, are you going to make an attempt to catch something, or just jabber all day?"

Tate laughed at his friend's way of bringing things into perspective, as he shuffled across the to the tent they'd set up on the shore to get his tackle box and bait up.

"Danggit!" Tate yelled, from inside the tent. "I guess I left my tackle box in the truck." He emerged wearing a look of annoyance. Bunk only grinned and shook his head as Tate turned and set out on the long trudge back to where they'd parked.

Struggling up the frozen path through the trees, Tate reached the truck and retrieved his tackle box. Winded from the trek, he sat down on the tailgate to catch his breath and rub his calves that ached and quivered like jello. He thought of his once youthful legs that had tromped through these woods with boundless energy. But his private reflections were soon interrupted by muted sounds that broke through the stillness of the snow covered surroundings. Jo was yelping and carrying on like he might just die with excitement, and Bunk was whooping and shrieking like some kind of wild man.

"Danggit!" he said again, as he pictured Bunk wrestling what surely must be a small whale from the ice. In no hurry to face the large measure of Bunk's gloating he'd have to endure, he plodded along the trail to the lake, as the distant clamor faded back to silence.

He reached the edge of the lake and shouted, "Okay! Let's see it!" He stepped out on the frozen crust and looked up expecting to see Bunk proudly displaying his catch like a trophy. He stopped abruptly in mid-stride as he tried to absorb the shock. There was no fish. No Jo. No Bunk.

His heart pounded out of control as his eyes scanned the ice frantically back and forth before locking on to an immense jagged hole in the lake. The hole appeared like a gaping mouth bearing sinister teeth. It had swallowed his friends and sneered at him now without pity, without remorse. He tried to scream out their names but only whispers escaped his lips. "Jo. Bunk. How long has it been since I heard their voices? Thirty minutes? an hour?"

Unable to tear his eyes away, the hole seemed to grow larger the longer he stared at it. His feet felt like lead as he took a few tiny steps, but the ice commanded him to "STOP" as it splintered with tiny veins pulsing toward him. He stumbled numbly backward and fell with a thud against the frozen bank.

Motionless, he laid there on his back with his eyes fixed above. Daylight faded to darkness of night and fresh snow blanketed his body, but he was not cold. And there was no silence. His ears were full of jumbled sounds, and glowing images wafted across the backdrop of the blackened sky.

... Jo barking, running carefree through the woods ..."Old Blue"... rumbling down the road and Bunk's silly grin fading from view... Lettie...laughing free and easy as the breeze catching your hair... He ran his fingers through her glossy dark tresses. His heart swung like the pendulum of her cherished antique clock in the hall ... tick-tock .... tick-tock . . .tick-tock . . .tick-tock ...