Jon Lamb was having little luck. He had fished the shallow, cold, mountain creeks of the Reservation Lands for trout and grayling, but he was new to this city and to the wide, slow rivers that encompassed it.
The Festival of the Dog Star, the first sighting of the summer star over the horizon, was one of four given over for purification. People, public spirited, or simply ever mindful of their neighbors' eyes, were diligently cleaning their homes, shops, and streets. They burned richly scented pine boughs in hopes of warding off the summer fevers, brought on by insects and the heavy, humid air. Jon was playing hooky.