The village of Mule Camp Springs sat silent below the lake. In the middle of the street, down in the dark waters, lay an aluminum boat that had tragically gone down one Fourth of July, drowning two brothers who had been drinking beer and fishing for bass and who had been arguing about whether to go back because storm clouds were coming up. The younger brother had declared that the clouds were only passing through, the fish were biting, and when the hell were they going to get another day like this to fish? The older brother, who had drunk eight beers, stood up to make his point, stumbled, and tipped the boat over, which had come to rest next to the disintegrating remains of the Mule Camp Methodist church. Where the boat now lay had once been the only paved street running through the little village. Before the road was paved, on sacred days, people had arrived at church in horse-drawn wagons, wearing uncomfortable Sunday clothing, stepping down into the dust, and on profane days, farmers had come to the general store beside the church, wearing worn-out work clothes, putting their boots down into the mud on rainy days. Later on, after the road had been paved, cars drove past the church on their way to the nearby town of Gainesville. Fish now hovered around the sunken boat.