Monica Devine checking the wheel box for salmon.

The following is an except from Monica Devine’s memoir, Water Mask.

Blood flows in rivulets around my boots, forming pools that hover above ground, pools the powdery silt does not instantly absorb. The big metal bucket at my feet is teeming with fish flopping their silvery bodies into question marks as they mouth foreign air. 

With two hard swats, I smack the head of a fish with my wooden bonker to stun it. The flopping…

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