Time flowed like the canal, constant, and seasons came and passed. Croc turned five, celebrating with a candy bar from the stockpile, and a coloring book Harlan had hidden away. It was the first year Harlan hadn't made him a cake, but his T Crocodile took the bad news in stride, just as he had everything else.

Harlan was grateful for a slow death. As his body decayed, Croc's independence grew. He couldn't cook, but he'd pick vegetables and wash them, and he and Harlan would eat them raw. The few times Harlan had mustered the energy to travel to the garden, he could tell the boy was watering, even planting, but hadn't done much else. Harlan hated seeing it overgrown and full of weeds, but the amount Croc had accomplished made up for it.

The boy would eat; that was all that mattered.

Harlan kept his gun on him, as if expecting his death to come with a ten-minute warning. He wouldn't allow himself to succumb inside the house, knowing the boy would have no way of removing his body afterward. When he felt he was too far gone, he'd say his goodbyes and allow the canal to float him somewhere far enough Croc wouldn't hear the bullet.

But not yet. Harlan still had a little time left to spend with his grandson. He took pictures, so Croc would remember him, and told him how much Pappy loved him, hoping he'd remember that too. He told him all the stories he had to tell, both truth and fiction, but he also shared the quiet. The absolute stillness that existed when alone. That way, once he was gone, maybe Croc would feel him in it. Sense that his Pappy was still there, in the silent echoes, the same way Harlan felt Mama and Papa were with him now.

The sun was bright, warming his skin as he sat on the dock. Croc was cross legged at the end of it, watching the canal. Moments like these, Harlan could see himself in him, like a new harvest taking place of the old, the same way he had taken place of his papa.

"Look," Croc said, pointing as a gator emerged to sun itself on a log.

Harlan smiled, then lifted his camera and snapped a photo. The film whirred as it printed, and he pulled it free, giving it a light shake before adding it to the stack on his lap. A cool breeze blew over him. Harlan closed his eyes, and breathed it in. Peace wasn't a place. It wasn't a swamp or a town. It was a moment.

"Pappy?" Croc jumped up and scampered back to stand half-hidden behind Harlan's chair.

Harlan's eyes sprang open, going first to his grandson, then to the fishing boat just drifting into view. "Go inside," Harlan ordered. He listened for the sound of the door behind him before standing from his chair. The gun rested heavy in the waistband of his trousers.

The man driving the boat wasn't as thin as the people in town, but he was just as dirty. He wore a pair of ripped jeans and nothing else. Harlan took stock of how well-built the man was, increasing his unease. Not that it would take much to outmatch Harlan nowadays.

"Afternoon," Harlan said, neither rude nor friendly. It wasn't unheard of for a fisherman to find his way through Harlan's spot, but it wasn't common either. Nor likely.

The man nodded, then slowed the boat to a stop by the dock. "Afternoon," he said as he loosely tied a rope around the post.

Harlan wasn't sure how to react. Every single one of his muscles tensed. The way the man was behaving, you'd have thought he'd set out to visit. As if he were expected.

"Can I help you?" Harlan rested a hand on his side, readying himself to grab the gun.

The man, having already climbed out, smiled as he approached. "I sure hope so. You Harlan Boudreaux?"

Harlan didn't answer right away. He knew this wasn't a friendly visit. It didn't matter if the man smiled. Didn't matter that he sounded nice enough. There was an underlying bad to him, like a dead thing coated in perfume. "Who's askin'?"

"Name's Beau. Sorry to just drop in on you like this." He stopped three feet away and held out a hand.

Harlan didn't take it.

Beau lifted a brow, then let the hand fall to his side. "Little birdie says you and I are looking for the same person. You had any luck tracking down Jolie?"

Harlan worked hard to keep his face blank at the memory of his granddaughter; that frail waif of a person, crying her eyes out as she said goodbye to her babe, knowing she'd never return to him. I'm too mixed up in all the bad to be any kind of mother.

This was the bad. Harlan knew it without even needing to ask. "Not sure who that is," he said, tone guarded. Inside, he was boiling. If this man was the reason Croc didn't have his mama, the reason Jolie hadn't felt safe coming with them, then he didn't need much of an excuse to shoot the bastard. Hell, he'd shoot him extra, just to make up for all the heartache he'd helped cause.

"Now, don't lie to me." Beau looked around, then let out a low whistle. "This is a nice setup you got here. Hard as hell to find, too. Pure luck that I did."

Harlan reached back and gripped the handle of the gun. "You must have me mistaken for someone else."

"Nah." The man's eyes latched on like leeches to Harlan's face. "See, I know that ain't it. That was her boy wasn't it? No denyin'. Spittin' image. Though, I'd say he looks a little like his papa." He scrubbed a hand over the side of his face. "I'd have to get a little better look at him. What you think?"

Harlan paused. The babe's daddy. How did he know the man was telling the truth? And, what if he was? His grip on the gun loosened as his thoughts raced. If someone had told Harlan about a daddy, Harlan would have sought him out as an option. But, if the girl had wanted the boy with this man, she wouldn't have given him to Harlan.

So, why had she?

"Why are you here?" Harlan asked.

"Ah, so I am in the right place." He took a lazy step closer, scanning the area more. The shack, the distance. "Say, where do you keep all those vegetables? I don't see any crops."

"It ain't here." Harlan wasn't about to tell him which direction to walk. "You still haven't answered my question."

"I already told you: I'm looking for Jolie."

"Well, she ain't here either."

Beau glanced at Harlan's face, then sucked his teeth, and shook his head. "It really is shameful what she's done. Leaving an old man like you with a baby...and all that debt."

Debt? Harlan remained silent, frozen, waiting for whatever bad was coming. He could sense it in his bones.

"What?" Beau continued. "She didn't tell you?" He barked a laugh. "Figures, huh? Yeah, Jolie racked up quite a bill before she ran off. Seeing as she's nowhere to be found, and you being her kin, having all this—" He motioned around them, "—I'm unfortunately gonna have to hold you responsible."

"How much does she owe?" Harlan had money. He'd had it saved to move, and it would do no good to anyone here.

"How much you got?"

Something clicked inside Harlan's brain. This man hadn't come here looking for his son, if Croc even really was his. He'd come to take, and a man who would steal food from his own child's mouth wouldn't stop until there was nothing left.

This land was all he had to give the babe. The garden, the shack, and the slim chance at survival were the only plan Harlan had. If he allowed this man to rip it away, then what? Where would Croc go? How would he live?

He couldn't allow it.

Harlan pulled the gun free, thumbed the barrel back, and fired.

He stumbled as the intruder clutched his stomach, doubling over before falling onto his backside. Adrenaline surged, too fast. His body shook, his teeth chattered, and he stared, disbelieving, at what he'd done.

The front door opened behind him. "Pappy?"

Harlan spun, desperate to prevent the boy from seeing. He stumbled forward, hands outstretched, ushering him back inside.

Then the second shot sounded, and Harlan fell forward.

"Pappy!" Croc screamed, barely managing to get out of the way.

Harlan fell through the doorway, crying out at the intense heat burning a hole into his back. It took him a minute to register what it meant, what had happened, and the second he did, he roared, "Get back, boy!"

Then, he flipped, pushing through the pain, letting it fuel him. He'd just made it to his back and craned his head enough to see the man clutching his stomach, laid back flat on the dock, his gun held loosely out beside him. He was dying. On the dock. Where the boy would be forced to watch his body rot.

Unless Harlan got rid of it, soon, before he died too. He sucked in a breath, then choked and spluttered. Blood splattered the floor.

Despite Harlan's demands to stay back, Croc rushed forward to help. "Pappy!" He was sobbing, his face red, his breaths sharp and shuddering.

Harlan forced himself upright. The burn was dulling, becoming cold. He was almost out of time. "Shh, T Croc. It's all right." He cupped the boy's neck, pulling their foreheads together. Then he closed his eyes and breathed in slow, memorizing the scent of his babe. "Pappy has to go and sleep now."

"No!" Croc tried to pull away.

Harlan held him firm. "Pappy doesn't have a choice. You remember what Pappy told you. You'll be a good boy and protect yourself. Can you do that?"

Croc nodded, though his sobs grew harder.

Harlan had to fight to keep himself from sobbing too. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. This wasn't what he'd planned, but, if Harlan had learned anything, it was that things didn't always happen the way they should.

He forced himself to his feet, feeling the air against his cold, wet back. He had no idea how bad the wound was, but he knew, at any moment, he would fade. "Go in the bedroom and close the door." He paused, pulling the boy in for a firm hug.

Croc clung to his legs, still crying.

"Pappy loves you, so—" his voice broke "—very much."

They stood like that for what felt like forever but could only have been a minute. Harlan closed the front door behind him and stumbled down the deck. The man was dead. That was plain. Wide, vacant eyes stared up into nowhere. He'd tried to get to his boat before he went, a trail of blood across the dock showed the distance he'd managed.

Harlan dropped to his knees and shoved the body with all his might, inching it forward until the man rolled into the boat with a hard thud. He tossed both guns in after him, untied the rope, then climbed in and started the engine.

Then he sped away, leaving everything he loved behind.

* * *

Croc wrapped himself in Pappy's blankets and stayed there. The sun fell. The shack grew dark and empty. He listened, willing Pappy to come back. Hoping he would walk in, call his name, and say he'd been wrong. He hadn't been as tired as he thought he was. But the only things Croc heard were creaks, thumps, rustles outside the window. He balled himself tighter, hiding in Pappy's scent, quietly sobbing until he fell asleep.

When he woke, the dark was gone, but the emptiness remained, somehow magnified by the ability to see. Croc ventured outside and spent the day on the dock, watching, waiting for Pappy to come back.

But days turned to weeks, and Pappy didn't return. Croc comforted himself by pretending he'd never left. He kept his back to the couch. If he didn't look, he could imagine Pappy was there, taking another one of his naps. If he focused, he could almost hear his deep breathing, his slight snores. He ate all his meals on the floor in front of it, pretending Pappy ate behind him. He sat on the dock, imagining Pappy sat with him. He did everything as if Pappy were there, and time repeated, over and over again on a constant loop.

Until, one day, he was sitting on the end of the dock, eating a can of tuna, and something stirred in the water below him. He peered into the murk, catching glimpses of a shadow too misshapen to be a fish. It disappeared, reappeared, then disappeared again.

Croc had just accepted that it was gone when a head popped up a foot in front of him.

A baby gator stared directly at him.

Croc imagined Pappy behind him. Gators think Croc is a snack.

But Pappy wasn't behind him, and it had been a long time since anything interesting happened. Babies this small weren't usually so close to the dock. Croc looked down at the half-empty can of tuna. Maybe, if he gave the gator a different snack, he wouldn't want to eat Croc.

He pinched some between his fingers and tossed it into the water.

The baby zipped forward, gnashing it up like it had the ability to fight back.

Croc laughed, then tossed some more in a different direction, smile wide as the gator sped after it. A friendship was born, and with it, a change occurred. It wasn't as lonely as it had been. Wasn't as empty with something to look forward to each day. Croc shared every meal with his new companion. He repeated the stories his Pappy had told and sang him the songs Pappy had sung.

The gator grew, and so did Croc. On his tenth birthday, he took a candy bar from the stockpile—one of the few items still there—and sat in his spot on the end of the dock. The water looked different today. He'd noticed the same thing the week before. There was an odd shimmer to it, as if he'd poured in some of Pappy's lamp oil. He dipped his hand in, watching it roll off his fingers. It didn't feel different.

The gator whizzed forward, and Croc barely managed to pull his hand back in time to save his fingers. "Croc is not a snack!" he scolded.

The gator floated, legs gently moving back and forth as he waited expectantly for his food.

Croc shook his head. "No. This is not for Gator. It's for Croc's birthday." He took a bite and chewed slowly, holding eye contact. "You're supposed to say, 'Happy birthday, Croc!' Go ahead, say it. Happy birthday, Croc! Then, maybe Croc will share."

Silence followed, and Croc took another tiny bite. He wanted it to last. The gator swam closer, his eyes pleading.

Croc broke off a piece and dangled it above his head. "Say, 'Happy birthday, Croc!' "

Gator's jaws opened wide, as if he could will the piece into his mouth.

"Happy birthday, Croc!" Croc prompted again. He wasn't sure why he was trying. He wanted something to do. He wanted someone to say it. He wanted someone besides himself to say something. He wanted Pappy.

He sighed and closed the bite into his fist, letting it fall to his lap as a deep sadness washed over him. Birthdays were the hardest days. Because, birthdays weren't the same without him.

"Happy Croc!"

Croc's brows lifted, and he reared back, staring at the gator still floating in front of him. Had he imagined that?

Gator waited, expectant, then opened his mouth again. "Happy Croc!"

Croc's mouth fell open, and a thrill shot through him. "Happy birthday, Croc!"

"Birthday!"

Croc laughed and smiled so big it hurt. He tossed the bite into Gator's mouth. "Happy birthday, Croc!"

"Happy birthday!"

And it was. Some might say it was a rebirth. The start of a new life, where nothing would ever be empty again.

* * *

Croc spent all day every day teaching Gator new words. Then, one day, Gator stopped mimicking and started speaking. He'd answer questions, ask them, and comment on things he'd seen or heard. After a time, their roles reversed. Gator encouraged Croc fully into the water, and Croc went, because he knew Gator would protect him.

He taught Croc how to swim, how to move fast, and how to catch and eat fish straight out of the canal. The swamp came to life, the fish growing larger, as the vegetables did the same. Croc ate well and grew large too. He became faster and stronger. He learned to climb from tree frogs. How to slither with snakes. As they learned his language, he learned theirs. He mimicked their sounds, distinguishing warning from greeting, friend from foe. The gators still thought he was a snack, but none were able to make him one.

His body changed, growing hair where none had grown. His voice broke, going squeaky, then deepening, until he could hear Pappy each time he spoke. A longing started as springtime came and went, and the swamp fell in love, over and over again.

Despite having so many friends to talk to, Croc was completely alone. There was no one like him to pair with. There was no love for him to experience, not in that way. There would be no baby Crocs to fill the swamp and grow.

He expressed his feelings to Gator one day, as they sat on the dock, watching the swamp like he and Pappy used to do.

"You might need to go further to find a lady human," Gator said.

Croc shook his head. He'd broken every command Pappy ever gave, except for that one. He didn't leave the swamp. Though, he couldn't quite remember why. He remembered Pappy saying it. He remembered his tone. How serious he had been. And, if he were being honest, he was afraid of what he'd find. Or worse, that he might not make it back.

"Why not?" Gator asked.

"Croc just can't."

Gator was quiet for a long moment. "Then Gator will go for you."

Despite Croc's adamant insistence that Gator never cross the line, Gator was gone the next day when Croc woke. Memories Croc had let fade came rushing back into vivid focus. Suddenly, he was just a boy watching, waiting, for Pappy to come back. Only, now, it was his friend, and, as months passed, he started to feel like Gator was gone forever too.

But Gator did come back, and the whole swamp celebrated his return, most of all Croc.

"There's humans out there. Tons of 'em. They're strange though. First one I seen was an old man sitting on the bank, fishing with a string! Can you believe that? A string! No wonder he was so skinny. Anyway, I said hi, real friendly, real nice, and he just stared at me for a moment, then pours out his drink, stands up, and walks off. And he wasn't the only one. Wouldn't none of them talk to me. Believe me, I tried several times. But they would talk to each other if I stayed out of sight."

Croc hung onto every word, amazed by everything Gator had seen. It was no wonder Pappy said they didn't belong.

"The ladies I seen didn't look too well provided for, so I have no doubts you'd win whichever one you wanted. You'd have to come with me, and—"

"No." While all of this was intriguing, it didn't change anything. "Croc doesn't leave the swamp. Ever." That's what Pappy had said.

"That's another thing. The people outside don't say their own names. They all say I. I means yourself."

"Croc isn't like the people outside. Croc is like Pappy." He stormed off, up to the roof where he'd slept since he was old enough to climb, and that was the last anyone spoke of leaving.

Years passed, and things stayed the same. Same food. Same sunrise. Same swamp. Same conversations. And the life Croc had been so content with felt hollow, as if a piece were missing, as if he were meant to be doing something but didn't know what.

Until, one evening, he was sitting at the table, when Gator began to holler, "Croc! Croc!"

He jolted up from his chair and stepped outside, then froze.

There were people in the yard.

He stared, dumbfounded, taking stock of what he was seeing. Two females and two babies. Then, more specifically, the younger of the females. She didn't look strange to him, and he wondered if she was. Maybe she was from the swamp too. She had hair the color of mud, and her eyes reminded him of the canal. She was dirty, and a little sickly: too thin, too pale.

She was beautiful.

Croc wanted to cry. He wanted to throw himself to his knees and beg them to stay. He'd do anything, strange or not. He'd provide, so they'd need no reason to leave. He'd protect, the way Pappy had. He'd tell her babies his stories and sing them all his songs.

He'd be happy.

He knew, he'd be happy.

***

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