"Whiskeyjacks should fly better," he says.

Elijah looks at him. "How do you know my name?"

"I don't," the man says. "I was dreaming. There was a flock of whiskeyjacks." He looks confused. "They were pecking at something dead."

Elijah stands and walks back to me.

"What did the old man say to you?" I ask.

"He knew my name. Claims he was dreaming of whiskeyjacks."

"It's a sign,” I say.

"Everything's a sign to you." Elijah looks out the window. "Hey, there’s a sign," he says, pointing outside. "It says Abitibi River. But you wouldn't know that, considering you're a heathen."