A good place. A good place.

He wondered if it was the lake he had heard of. His sense told him it was.

A hundred yards or so up the east side of the lake, he had seen a small frame building that seemed empty from his distant view, though it was hard to tell since it had a screened-in porch, the screen hiding whatever was behind it. Probably a shack used by hunters, he had reasoned, remembering such shacks from his childhood. If somebody lived in it full-time, they did a good job of making it appear deserted.

Whoever it was that owned the lake and the shack had a good place.

He squatted at the lake’s edge, placing the fishing rod he carried on the ground, and then he leaned forward and lightly touched the palm of his hand on the surface of the water.

Tell me, he said silently, said inside his mind.

The water was cool. Against his palm it had a ticklish feel of silk.

Yes, a good place.

He pushed his fingers into the water and wiggled them, paused, let his eyes scan the lake.

Forty feet away, against the bank, the water roiled, quivered like a muscle.

He smiled again, held his fingers in the water, watched the roiling ripple toward him in perfect circles. Soon, the first ring touched him. He pulled his hand from the water and lifted it to his face and inhaled slowly, taking in the scents of the lake. Algae. The decay of trees pushed over by wind storms and dropped into the water. Hickory, oak, beechnut, sweet gum. Silt of leaves and wash-off of wood dirt. Frog and snake and turtle. And fish. The sharp, almost metallic scent of fish.

He rubbed his hand across the front of his shirt.

A very good place.

He stood and slipped the army knapsack he wore off his shoulder, then picked up the rod and pulled loose the line on the bait-casting reel, letting the lure dangle before him. It was an old lure, turned like a small minnow with silver flecks on its sides. He had caught many fish with it before snipping off the hook with a pair of wire cutters. It was now a lure for holding his line on the rod and for teasing.

One cast, he thought.

One cast to let Mr. Fish know he was there.

Enough to anger Mr. Fish, to make him restless.

Make him coil and leap at anything moving near him.

He tilted his rod to the water, dipped the lure, wetting it. Then he made his cast near the bank where the fish—a bass, a largemouth, he believed—had rolled. He watched the lure slap the water, dive and disappear, and then he began his slow reeling-in of the line. He could feel the lure drag through algae and he flicked his wrist twice, giving the line a jerking motion.

A cloud skimmed the July sun, dimmed it. He felt a puff of air against his face and stood motionless to let the air pause on his skin. A sense of peace settled over him as though he had marked the place he stood on a map and, after a long journey, had arrived at his destination. He wondered what day of the week it was and the date marking the day. Thought: What does it matter?