The fish is good enough, he says, that I must have a cushion, and if I will make it for him again I may steer the boat. I wonder what it would be like to live here, cadging rides along the hateful river and fishing from its banks. Restful, I suspect, to the point of dull. I say as much to the ferryman, and he laughs again. Beneath our keel the hissing water snarls defiance at his mirth, and Charon grins wider still. He sees me to the far side with a flourish, and crushes heavy-heeled some pincered crab that tries to nip at me as I depart.