We have 90 minutes of daylight to pull off a modified Lowcountry boil, so everyone jumps in. Fowlks and Kemper work the fire, Jack cleans the fish, and I get the kitchen ready. In 30 minutes, potatoes, sausage, and corn simmer on a camp stove, while whole fish do the peanut-oil shuffle nearby. A grill holds more fish, crabs, and oysters over hot coals. We eat with our fingers, kicked back on buckets and driftwood logs. After sunset, it’s one of the blackest nights I can recall. I think about our location, nearly 10 miles from a paved road, far out on the edge of the refuge. We could be as far away from another human being as anyone else from Virginia to Florida.