On the Montana highway, just west of Missoula, they pulled their truck into a rest stop before the heavy mountains. It was very hot, but they knew the snow could come at elevation. Shade covered the hood of their truck.

A broken-down tractor-trailer took up much of the lot. The driver stood over the engine, looking into the heat. He had not made the mountains. The couple watched the driver from a bench in September. It was good to rest before Idaho.

The St. Regis River flowed beside them. The woman stood and walked over to the water with the dog. There were fish in the clear water of the river. The man left the bench. Spoiled fish, he thought. We only have to pee and to rest a little. We aren’t manna from fish heaven. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go.”

“Fuck you.”

The dog stared at the fish. The man watched a motorcycle gang roar past. Each bike the same: man front, woman back.

“Do you see all these fish?” the woman asked. “I wish I knew what they were.”

The dog was in the water. The fish didn’t mind. They were used to traffic.

“I think they’re carp.”

The tractor-trailer coughed into life.

“Goddamn it,” said the man.

“If there’s enough time today, I’d like to buy a bathing suit.”

“Honey,” he began.

She turned around. The fish swirled around the dog’s legs.

They passed the hazard lights of the semi, first gear grinding, climbing climbing climbing, up the near side of the mountain.

Bram Riddlebarger writes, plays music, and lives in SE Ohio.