The old man had taught the boy to fish and the boy loved him.
He rubbed the cramped hand against his trousers and tried to gentle the fingers. But it would not open. Maybe it will open with the sun, he thought. ‘Maybe it will open when the strong raw tuna is digested. If I have to have it, I will open it, whatever it costs.'
Up the road, in his shack, the old man was sleeping again. He was still sleeping on his face and the boy was sitting by him watching him. The old man was dreaming about the lions.