He waded into the shallow water, scooping one fish into his hands. Its body twitched weakly, gills pulsing open and closed. He ran to the faucet by the garden. Nothing, just a dry hiss. He tried the one by the shed, then the kitchen sink. All dead. The bastards had shut the water off again.
He leaned against the counter, chest tight, the sound of the struggling fish carrying through the open door. Those koi had been his wife’s idea. Her last project before she got sick. “Something peaceful,” she’d said. “A little color outside the window.” Walter had kept them for her. He couldn’t lose them too.