The fish made a run toward him, turned, broke the water’s surface with its head, its great mouth open, showing the lure. Then it dove. By the feel of the line, Noah believed the fish had struck the bottom of the lake, skimming it. He glanced at the shoreline. It roiled with fish. Fish so small they seemed almost invisible.

He let the fish take the line, run with it. Then he stopped the run, pulled the rod close to his chest, its tip high above his head, made three turns on the reel, then tilted the rod forward, giving the fish a new thought of freedom. And the fish began to swim in a circle—small, even, moving tamely toward Noah.

Noah smiled. He knew the trick. It was a way of making the fisherman think the catch was at hand, making him relax, and when the grip on the rod was made loose, the fish would yank it into the water. He had seen it happen fishing with Marvin Lin-quist in Germany. Remembered Marvin leaping into the water after his rod, flailing around like a drowning man, finally coming back to shore grinning his happy grin, saying, “That there fish was a Nazi bass. Puts up a little fight and then runs off.”

The fish yanked at the line. Noah bent at his knees to keep his hold on the rod.

“You got to do better than that,” he said aloud, but in a whisper.

The fish seemed to hear him. It turned again and made a strong race toward the center of the lake. Noah released the drag, letting the wet, braided line fly from the reel, singing its song of water and air.

And then it became a game of rhythm, of give-and-take, played with the muscle of fish and man. Noah could feel an aching in his shoulders and in the bridge of his abdomen. His wrists burned with pain, his fingers cramped. Beads of perspiration bubbled at his hairline and dripped from his face. Yet, he knew the fish was also tiring.

Twenty minutes later, the fish relaxed, stopped its yanking and diving and rising, and let itself be pulled gently toward the shoreline.

At water’s edge, the fish lifted its head to Noah, its wide eyes staring up at him, and Noah thought of his promise to Hoke Moore. He said to the fish, “Hoke Moore’s been thinking about you a long time.” He paused and added, “So will I.”

He held the rod firmly in one hand and reached with the other for the ax beside him.

The fish swayed in the water. A muscle rippled down its body.

For a moment, Noah did not move, and then he dropped the ax. The fish did not kill the boy, he thought. The boy died from being who he was. Nothing more. Nothing more at all.

He reached into his pocket and removed his pocket knife. Raised it to his mouth and opened the blade with his teeth. Then he eased the tip of the rod to him and cut the line and watched the fish slide back into the water.