A lemon shark lazes by. Lemons are bone and permit predators, so he's good to see. Then life, which is to say, everything on the meadow, seems to sag. Chard sniffs the air and calls it: We're moving to a different section of the flat. I muse on the shimmering knowledge of guides, how they have brains that actually think like fish. I reel in, stow my rod, and turn to the console, and there stands Chard, line shooting off the back of the boat, his reel emitting the low moan of being punished by a large fish. It's our permit.