Even after John had killed a few turkeys, a rabbit, and a buck, there was still something about baiting a hook that could make his stomach go a little undone. Actually feeling something writhing for its life—not seeing it twenty yards out from your shotgun, but feeling it right there in your fingertips—that was the part that could make the heart weak.

But not Alex. She’d twist up a thick old night crawler five different ways, knot it into itself, pull the ends to tighten it, even as the thing struggled mightily to muscle its way free. Then she’d stick the hook through, catching as many surfaces as possible, purple guts oozing, the worm’s flesh working in and out like an accordion—she’d do all of this like it was straight-up nothing. She’d ball up the worm so tightly on the end of the hook it looked like a tiny Christmas ornament; no way a fish could steal a nibble without getting the hook. She didn’t even flinch.

The two of them positioned themselves two-thirds of the way out the pier, right where Barry had said the current was likely to attract the big ones, and they sat next to each other. The cement of the pier was steaming after the rain in the night and the early heat of the day.

John had spent a few bucks on a bag of ice and filled his cooler on wheels in hopes that they would have at least a few fillets to take back to the house. He put the heavy cooler behind him to serve as a backrest. Alex hummed contentedly as she lightly bounced her pole to try and drum up some interest underwater.

An old fisherman was making his way in from the far end of the pier. He had a big red lump of a nose that was mushy and creased as a piece of chewed gum, and he wore a khaki bucket hat, flip-flops, and a lightweight shirt riddled with dark red and brown stains. He carried a pole and a tangled swath of netting.

As he drew near, John said, “Any bites?”

“Not a one,” the man said. “Reckon that rain yesterday stirred up some stuff, brought some big schools of sardines through. Nobody’s hungry today. But maybe you’ll have better luck than me.” He nodded down at Alex. “You too, son. Hope you snag the big ’un.”

Alex said, “Me too.”

John put a finger to his brow and murmured, “Alright now.”

As the fisherman continued on his way, John glanced sideways at Alex to see if she had been fazed by the “son” comment, but if she had noticed it at all, she certainly didn’t seem to care.

They sat for a long while without a bite, the sun broiling their heads.

Occasional whitecaps broke against the pier to offer the small relief of a misty spray.

Eventually, Alex pulled her worm in and rearranged it on the hook. She added a weight to her line, recast, bounced it. After a few more casts, she got up and switched to the other side of the pier.