"You know, boy," Byron said, shaking out the match, "I like you."
He inhaled on the pipe, regarding Peter for a moment.
"Thanks," Peter said. "You're a good guy, too."
"That's what my wife tells me," Byron said, exhaling a cloud of blue smoke. "You and I ought to take a float out on this baby," he said, poking his pipe at his boat, the "Net Work." He sat down, dangling his feet above the low tide, and Peter sat down beside him. "Listen, I'm gonna tell you something, and I want you to promise me you'll think about it. Okay?"
"Sure."
"You're a bright fella. But you're walking around like a little boy who lost his old dog and hates the world for it," he said.
Peter exhaled, his breath forming a faint mist in the cool air, and looked down into the water.
"Son, everything dies. It's how life goes on. Your pooch, he's gone. It's time to go pick a new puppy, and train it, and love it, and make it great."
"That's easy for you to say. You've done it all and it lasted longer for you, most of your life, and you have a wife now and you're happy."
"Poppyshit!" Byron said. "Do you think the 990 was the only thing I ever did with ICP? No way. I did all sorts of things with them, but the difference is that I stayed on board, and times were different then. I was trained to do the things I did. You're different."
"How so?"