Anom sat at the edge of the drainage channel.
The nylon net on his lap was tangled with black moss, torn detergent plastic, and leftover thread stuck to the rocks.
His rough, calloused fingers moved slowly, untying knot after knot.
The cut on his left palm from last night had left only a thin pink line.
The skin around it had healed completely.
Anom rubbed the scar with his thumb.
Smooth.
Like a knife had never cut it.
He shook his head slightly.
Better not to think about it.
The blue bucket on his right side held four Plecostomus fish.
They moved wildly, their bodies hitting the plastic walls over and over.
Their scales shone under the light coming through the gaps in the concrete.
Their stomachs were clean, with no sores like the other fish he usually caught.
The water in the bucket was clear.
Really clear.
Anom could see fine cracks at the bottom of the bucket—things that had long been covered by mud and moss.
He looked away.
It made him dizzy to keep thinking about it.
The sky under the toll bridge was hot white.
Not a single cloud.
The sun hung right above the gap in the road, blasting heat that made the asphalt up there give off a thin vapor.
Sweat ran from Anom’s temples to his jaw, then dripped onto the net in his lap.
His thin shirt was wet on his back.
The smell of sweat mixed with diesel and dry mud.
A hot day.
A normal day.
As his fingers were working on the tightest knot, he heard footsteps.
The steps scraped against gravel.
Heavy.
Rubber flip-flops with thin soles.
The sound came closer from the eastern tunnel.
Anom knew who the steps belonged to before seeing his face.
Ali.
Ali’s white T-shirt was now gray from dust and dried sweat layered over and over.
His shorts were covered in oil stains from holding motorcycle chains or sitting in illegal workshops by the train tracks.
A clove cigarette was lit between his left fingers, its smoke rising thin into the hot, humid air.
Ali stood three meters from Anom.
Anom didn’t say hello.
He kept sorting through the net.
Ali didn’t speak right away either.
He just stood there, his eyes fixed on the blue bucket next to Anom.
Not at the water, not at Anom.
Straight at the bucket.
“Really hot today, huh?”
Ali’s voice was hoarse.
Cigarettes.
Dry throat.
Anom nodded slightly.
His fingers kept working.
Ali crouched down.
He was now only a meter from Anom.
The heat from Ali’s body spread to the side, mixing with the cigarette smell stuck to his clothes.
He took a deep drag, his chest expanding, then blew the smoke toward the black river flowing slowly.
The tip of his sandal scraped the ground.
Small pebbles rubbed against each other.
“You’ve been steady lately, Nom.”
Anom shrugged his right shoulder.
“Good enough to buy some rice and side dishes.”
Ali chuckled.
His voice was flat.
Like dry wood being scraped against concrete.
He stubbed out his cigarette on the tip of his sandal, then lit a new one from his shirt pocket.
The cigarette paper burned with a faint hiss.
“Good enough, you say,” Ali repeated as he blew out smoke.
“Yesterday I saw you bring two full buckets to Mr.
Haji Duloh.
This morning too.
That stingy Mr.
Haji Duloh just stayed quiet when he saw your fish.
Not once did he complain or try to lower the price.
You know yourself, he always has some excuse—fish too small, smells like diesel, tough skin.
But yesterday he was quiet.”
Anom stopped sorting the net.
His hand stopped in the air.
He stared at Ali.
The heat stung the back of his neck.
Even though he was sitting under concrete shade.
Cold sweat started wetting his back.
Not because of the weather.
“Did you change your fishing spot, Nom?” Ali asked.
His voice was now firm, no small talk.
“I already checked the channel near the airport.
Empty.
The water’s red from paint waste from the new factory.
The fish are dead.
Near the processing plant too, empty.
Usually there are lots of small Plecostomus there, now not a single one.
So where are you getting fish that clean?”
Anom swallowed.
His throat felt dry.
He had prepared his answer since waking up.
But when Ali asked so directly like this, all that preparation felt stupid.
“I’m still here, Ali.
My net is still set down there.”
He pointed toward the murky water in front of them.
Ali stood up.
He walked to the edge of the channel, arms crossed over his chest.
He looked down, seeing the nylon net tied to two old iron bars at the bottom of the river.
Seeing the floating trash.
Plastic bottles.
Detergent packets.
Gray soap foam.
A rat carcass floating with its stomach bloated.
The smell of diesel stung.
The smell of urine.
The smell of death.
The same air he breathed every day.
Ali went back to where he had been crouching.
The cigarette in his hand was half gone.
He didn’t throw it away.
“Still here?” Ali repeated Anom’s words with a sharp tone.
His eyes narrowed.
“You must be joking, Nom.
The water here is this bad.
Black.
Oily.
Poisonous.
No way fish that clean come from water like this.”
Anom stayed quiet.
He stared at Ali.
Waiting.
“Are you using new bait?” Ali kept pushing.
“Or do you have some secret way to clear the water?
Or are you secretly fishing downstream near the estuary?”
“I never go downstream, Ali.
My net is here.
The water’s still the same.”
Ali threw his cigarette butt into the river.
It floated for a moment then drifted away.
He wiped his face with his palm.
Sweat wet his fingers.
“Just got lucky with the water, that’s why I’ve got good fish,” Anom added.
Even to his own ears, that excuse didn’t make sense anymore.
But he had no other reason.
Ali stared at Anom.
His eyes were probing.
Another new cigarette.
His right hand shook slightly as he lit the lighter.
Maybe from the heat.
Maybe from something else.
He was about to speak again.
But his eyes got stuck on something behind Anom.
A woman.
She was sitting under the shadow of the deepest concrete pillar.
Pillar number thirty-four.
She was curled up with her chin resting on her knees.
Her stiff, tangled hair clumped together like dead swamp grass, blending into the dark, damp concrete.
She didn’t move.
Her chest didn’t rise and fall.
Her clear eyes stared straight at the water, not at Ali, not at Anom.
“Who’s that, Nom?” Ali asked.
His tone changed.
Cautious.
“A friend.”
Ali watched Inem longer.
Five seconds.
Ten seconds.
Fifteen seconds.
The hair on Ali’s arms stood up.
“Your friend’s weird, Nom.” Ali’s voice was soft.
“She hasn’t moved at all since earlier.
Not even her breathing shows.”
“She’s just like that.
Doesn’t talk much.”
Ali shook his head.
He stood up.
He took two drags of his cigarette then threw it away.
His hands were trembling.
“Listen, Nom.” Ali stepped back one step.
His eyes still glanced toward the woman.
“Take care of yourself.
Lots of people here get jealous when they see someone suddenly getting lucky.”
“I’m not lucky.
I just work.”
“Whatever you say, Nom.
But the market people are starting to talk about your fish.
They say you’re using black magic.
Getting help from spirits.
Having a sacrifice under the bridge.
Here, once rumors like that start, it’s not just words that come.”
Ali turned around.
His steps were fast.
His flip-flops scraped the gravel harder than when he came.
Once he looked back, staring at Inem who was still silent, then kept walking.
His thin body disappeared around the dark tunnel bend.
Anom still sat in his place.
His breathing was heavy.
He gripped the net on his lap.
His hands clenched.
His nails dug into his palm.
Painful.
But he needed that pain.
He glanced toward Inem.
She was still staring at the water.
As if nothing had happened.
Anom stood up.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
The air was hot.
This space under the toll bridge felt more suffocating than usual.
He knew Ali wouldn’t come alone next time.