Sacrifice and survival were inseparable. In order for life to continue, something had to die, and Kevin sincerely hoped a nice fat trout gave itself up for breakfast. That wasn’t looking likely, though. In previous years, this section of the Long River had been in no particular rush. The waterway meandered through the Maine forest and spilled out into Lake Walker about a hundred yards downstream. But this week, while not white water, recent storms swelled its banks, and the current was likely stronger than the surface indicated.

He glanced over at his ten-year-old son. Twenty feet away, just far enough that they wouldn’t hook each other when casting, Hunter held his fly rod over the riverbank.

“Not too close to the edge, Hunter.”

“OK, Dad.” Drawing his rod back to cast, Hunter answered without turning away from his task. Under his dark-blue Yankees cap, the boy’s freckled face was locked deep in concentration. His tongue poked out between his front teeth. The line flowed back and forth smoothly and sailed out over the water.

Pride swelled in Kevin’s chest. Teaching his son to connect with his primitive self on their annual fishing trip always put Kevin in a philosophical mood. Even on a windy morning, it sure beat sitting in his cubicle at the insurance company headquarters in New Jersey. He loved his wife and daughters immensely, but this manly-man time alone with his boy was precious.

Kevin let out a foot of line and whisked his arm back over his shoulder. With a gentle forward movement, he cast the rod toward the river. The fly soared, and he laid the line down on the water with one smooth motion. The bug touched down with a gentle plop.

“Man, you’re good at that.”

Kevin looked over his shoulder. His brother, Tony, emerged from the woods. He crossed the strip of weeds to the riverbank.

“When you’ve got it, you’ve got it.” Kevin was not telling Tony how many hours he practiced casting in his backyard. Fly-fishing lessons, two hundred dollars. Besting his younger brother? Priceless.

“Morning, Uncle Tony,” Hunter said with a happy grin.

“Morning, Little Man,” Tony answered, scratching his belly through his sweatshirt. He tucked his hands into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie and hunched his shoulders against the chill. April nights were still cold this far north, and the wind that had blown the rains away overnight persisted.

After a quick check to make sure Hunter wasn’t any closer to the water’s edge, Kevin turned his attention back to his line. Keeping the tip of the rod down, he lifted the line from the water.

Tony sipped from a travel mug. “Do you actually like getting up this early?”