Falcon Lake (2027)

A duffel bag. Olive green. Waterlogged and weeping silt.

Most tourists came for the trophy bass—the double-digit giants that lurked in the flooded brush. But Leo came for the quiet. And lately, the quiet had been speaking to him. Falcon Lake

His name was Leo, and he knew the lake’s secrets. A duffel bag

Then the line went tight.

The fog rolled in off the water like a held breath finally released. For the first time in a week, the surface of Falcon Lake was flat as slate, the violent chop that had kept the bass boats docked now a memory. On the northern shore, near the submerged ruins of Old Zavala, a lone fisherman stood. a lone fisherman stood.