Tip Up at Copper Thief
by S.A. McAuley
Len stood and extended his hand. “Then come on in. I’ll make us a proper holiday meal of fried fish and whiskey. Then you can tell me why in hell you’re crazy enough to be snow camping on Christmas, Graham Occam.”
*****Len wasn’t the only resident on the lake, but he was—or so he thought—the only one who had stayed in town for the holiday. But the extra tip-up was closer to the far shore—state owned land—than it was to his side—the colloquially nicknamed region of Copper Thief.
Len huffed out a breath as a high-pitched zing cut through the silence and the mysterious tip-up across the lake abruptly swished to point to the star-filled sky.
Then a broad figure stepped out of the line of trees on the far shore.
The figure crunched out onto the ice, boots skidding below him for purchase. It was only then, when he was really looking for it, that Len noticed the jumping glint of firelight from beyond the tree line.
The person was apparently camping on the state land. In snow. On Christmas.
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