"Squid Light":
I signed up for that squid fishing job because I needed the money. Back home in the northeast, things were tight, and the promise of a fat payout after two years at sea sounded like a way out. I had a girlfriend I wanted to impress, maybe start something real. My buddy Cui talked me into it—he was always chasing quick cash to fix his messes. We rushed through the paperwork, sat through a few days of safety lectures and navigation basics, and that was it. Before I knew it, I was standing on the deck of the Lurongyu, a trawler out of Shandong, the cold wind already biting my ears.
The captain, Li, was a tall man with a short fuse. He barked orders as we loaded up—sacks of rice, boxes of noodles, frozen meat, drums of oil, and those bright lamps meant to lure the squid from the deep. I brought extra smokes and instant food, figuring the ocean would get lonely.
We shoved off in late December, firecrackers popping along the dock, echoing against the harbor walls. The crew was a mixed bunch: a few from my province, some from Inner Mongolia who spoke their own dialect and stuck together, and officers from Dalian who acted like they owned the ship. Thirty-three of us total, crammed into bunks that smelled of rust, salt, and sweat.
The first weeks were hell. The sea never stopped rolling, and I threw up until I had nothing left to bring up. Nights blurred with the thrum of the engine and the slap of waves. When I wasn’t sick, I played low-stakes cards with Cui and a few others, dreaming about what we’d buy when we got back. Cui lost a bit, promised to pay me later.
There was this skinny guy from Heilongjiang, Liu. Always smoking. He had whole stacks of cartons stashed under his bunk. “This work’s miserable,” he’d mutter through the smoke. “But at least I control the cigarettes.”
By February, we hit the fishing grounds off Peru, and that’s when the real work began.
Nights were for jigging. We'd lower long lines baited with hooks, flood the water with those lamps until it glowed like liquid daylight, and wait for the squid to strike. When they did, the pull nearly tore your arms off—ten-pound bodies thrashing, spraying ink and seawater. We hauled until our backs screamed. Liu was the best—quiet, fast, methodical. He could bring in thousands of pounds a night without a word of complaint.
Unloading to the buyer ships was the worst. We'd go a day or two without sleep, stacking frozen trays in the hold until our fingers went numb. The captain pushed hard, shouting until his throat went hoarse. But the whispers started.
The pay wasn’t adding up. The contracts looked off—fake stamps, blurred signatures. Guys started saying we’d been tricked. Liu was the loudest. “We’re slaving for nothing,” he said one night in the mess, stirring noodles. “The company’s robbing us blind.” I nodded but kept quiet. Cui just laughed it off—said we’d deal with it when we got back.
Tension brewed like rot under the floorboards.
Xia, the cook, an older man who liked to drink and show off, sided with the captain and picked fights. One night, he mouthed off at a younger deckhand named Jiang. Jiang snapped, pulled a knife, shouting, “You think you’re better than us?” The captain stormed in, punched him down, made him kneel and apologize. “Too much drink,” Jiang muttered.
Liu spoke up, calm but firm. “Ease up, Captain.”
Li glared and walked off, but after that, Liu started talking quietly with a few men—Huang, a young kid from Mongolia, Bao from the same group, and others. I overheard bits of it while mending lines. “If we want to go home, we make it happen,” Liu said once.
By June, off the coast of Chile, the air was different. Heavy.
That night, I was on deck under the lamps when Liu came by. He picked up my squid knife, tested the blade, and said, “We’re taking the ship tonight. Join us?” His eyes were steady, unreadable.
I shook my head. “Not me.”
He said they’d put the non-joiners in rafts, call for rescue. Then he walked off with my knife.
My hands trembled on the line. I wanted to warn the captain, but the officers were asleep, and the deck felt watched. A few minutes later, I heard shouting—then a scream. The engine roared. Xia, the cook, rushed up waving a knife. “What are you doing?” he screamed. There was more shouting—then silence. When I came up later, there was blood on the deck. They said Xia fell overboard, but I knew better.
The mutineers—Liu, Jiang, Bao, Huang, and a few others—took over the bridge. They locked the weapons, chained the lifeboats, and forced Captain Li to steer for China. For weeks, it stayed calm. We crossed the Pacific, the men joking that we’d be home soon. “Say Xia slipped in a wave,” Cui whispered. But Liu grew more paranoid. He said fuel was low, engines failing, and rumors spread that the engineers were plotting to take the ship back.
Then came July.
One night, west of Hawaii, I was smoking in my bunk when Liu walked down the corridor, calling names. “Need help on deck.” Yue went first, then Liu Gang. Minutes later, screams—then splashes. Loud music from the helm, masking everything.
I froze, staring at the ceiling. Then I heard footsteps. The second officer stumbled in, bleeding. Liu followed, knife in hand. “Why are you on the floor?” he said, and stabbed him again. “Get up.” Another stab.
He turned to me, blood on his shirt. “You didn’t join at first,” he said softly. “But you’re my brother. You’re safe.”
I nodded. I didn’t breathe until he left. That night, they killed nine men—engineers Wen Dou and his cousin, Yue, Liu Gang, the second officer, Jiang Shutao, Chen, Wu, even Bo. Each mutineer had to take part. One by one, they dragged the bodies out and dumped them over the side.
By morning, the deck was scrubbed clean. I cooked breakfast like nothing happened. The air stank of bleach and iron.
Cui tried to comfort me. “We’re fine. They won’t touch us. We’ll be home soon.” But I saw how his hands shook.
Over the next days, men disappeared quietly—Ma one morning, gone without a trace. “He jumped,” Liu said. “He was my spy. No reason to kill him.” No one believed it.
Liu stopped sleeping. He made the captain sit beside him at meals. He checked every dish for poison, even watched me cook. His eyes were bloodshot, always scanning.
Then he changed course again—said we’d go to Japan, fake papers, call home for money. He made each of us phone our families, say we were sick, ask for 5,000 yuan. They sent what they could.
By the end, no one trusted anyone. Bao and his Mongolian men started whispering about overthrowing Liu. Huang told him. That night, Liu turned the captain into his ally. “You’ve killed too,” he told him. “You’re one of us now.”
He made a list of names.
At dawn, Bao was lured to the deck by Cui, told Liu wanted to talk. When he came up, the captain stabbed him from behind while Cui went for the chest. Bao screamed for his crew. But Liu’s men were waiting below. They called each Mongolian up by name—Dai, Shan, Qiu, Baocheng. Each one vanished into the dark. By sunrise, their bunks were empty.
Eleven of us left. All killers now, one way or another.
Liu drilled the story into us: “Blame the Mongolians. Say they fled in a raft.” He threatened our families if we told otherwise.
By August, the engines were dying. We drifted until the Japan Coast Guard spotted us. They towed us in, counted the crew, made calls. When Chinese police came, we told the lie, but it didn’t hold.
The trials came fast. Liu and Jiang got death. I got four years.
I served them quietly.
But even now, when I close my eyes, I hear the splashes. I see Liu’s smile in the dark, the ocean swallowing body after body.
Twenty-two men gone.
And somehow, I’m still afloat.
"Tides of Guilt":
My mother and I shared a love for fishing—something passed down from my grandfather, who’d taught us both how to tie knots, bait hooks, and read the tide. She was always the cautious one: packing extra snacks, checking the weather twice, making sure I hadn’t forgotten the life vests. I was more confident, maybe too confident. That evening, as we loaded the boat at the marina, I caught her looking out at the horizon, the sky already bruising purple.
“Are you sure about going out so far tonight?” she asked. Her voice was calm but carried that edge I’d learned not to ignore.
“It’ll be fine, Mom,” I said, smiling as I tightened the last strap. “The water’s calm, we’ve got all the gear, and Block Canyon’s where the big tuna are this time of year.”
She hesitated, eyes tracing the darkening water, then sighed and climbed aboard. I fired up the engine, and we eased away from the dock around eleven, leaving the orange glow of the harbor behind.
The boat was my pride—a sturdy thirty-one-footer I’d spent months restoring. Just that afternoon, I’d made a few tweaks: removed the old trim tabs that weren’t doing much and patched up a few worn spots on the transom. A guy at the dock had watched me drill out the bolts, chewing on chips. “Hey, you sure that’s smart? Boat could take on water that way,” he’d said.
I’d laughed it off. “She’s solid. Don’t worry about it.”
Mom didn’t know about the modifications. She trusted me with the mechanical stuff. As we motored out, she settled into the cabin with her thermos, the smell of her coffee cutting through the diesel. “Tell me again why we’re not just staying closer to the island?”
“Because the big ones aren’t near the island,” I said with a grin. “We’ll catch something worth bragging about.”
We dropped our lines near Block Island around one in the morning. The sea was glassy, the air cool and still. Mom pulled in a small striper, laughing softly as it flicked water on her sleeve.
“Okay,” she said, smiling. “This isn’t so bad.”
But I wasn’t satisfied. “Let’s push to the canyon. Just a few more miles.”
She frowned. “I’ve got work tomorrow. Those kids depend on me.”
“It’ll be quick,” I promised. And, as usual, she relented.
The further we went, the lonelier the night became. The last of the shoreline lights vanished behind us, and the only sound was the hum of the engine and the rhythmic slap of waves. I checked the bilge pump once or twice—it was running fine.
We reached the canyon just before dawn. The water was deep here—hundreds of feet below us, dark and heavy. We baited our hooks with squid and cast our lines. Mom watched the sunrise quietly, the gold light catching in her hair. “This is peaceful,” she murmured. “But promise me we’ll head back soon.”
“I promise,” I said.
Then my line jerked hard. “Got one!” I shouted, bracing myself. But before I could reel, a deep grinding noise echoed from the stern. Metal on metal.
Mom turned, eyes wide. “What was that?”
I ran to check—and froze. Water was seeping in through the transom, slow at first, then faster.
“Mom, something’s wrong with the bilge,” I said, trying to sound calm. The pump was running, but it wasn’t keeping up. The deck felt soft under my boots—spongy where I’d patched it earlier.
Her voice tightened. “Can you fix it?”
“I—I don’t know.” My hands fumbled for tools, but the flow was too strong. “Grab the ditch bags,” I told her. “Now.”
The water climbed fast, sloshing around our ankles, then our knees. “We’re sinking?” she cried.
“Get the life raft ready!” I yelled, fumbling for the radio. Static hissed. I tried again—nothing. The boat lurched hard to one side. “Hold on!”
She was reeling in the last line, hands trembling. The next second, the deck tilted violently. I didn’t even have time to shout before the bow went under.
The plunge was instant. The ocean swallowed us whole. The cold hit like a wall of knives, knocking the air from my lungs. I surfaced, coughing, eyes stinging from salt. The boat was gone—just debris and the hiss of air escaping from somewhere below.
“Mom!” I shouted.
A flash of orange—a life raft inflating nearby. I kicked hard toward it, dragging one of the ditch bags behind me. Climbing in was agony; my limbs felt like lead. I turned, scanning the water. “Mom? Where are you?”
No answer. Just the empty roll of the sea.
“Mom!” I screamed until my throat went raw. I blew the whistle—three short blasts, over and over. Nothing but wind and water.
Had she gone under? Hit her head? The thought twisted my stomach. I leaned over the side, peering into the black water, but it was hopeless—the current was already carrying debris away.
Hours passed. The sun rose, bright and merciless. I rationed what little we had: a few packets of water, a couple of energy bars, and a hand pump for desalination. My lips split from salt, my hands blistered from gripping the raft ropes. Every few minutes I scanned the horizon. Once, I saw a ship—a distant speck—but my flares fizzled uselessly against the light.
Guilt gnawed at me. Why hadn’t I listened to her? Why had I pushed so far out? I could still hear her voice: “Are you sure about going out so far tonight?”
By the second night, the ocean felt alive. Things moved out there—splashes in the dark, faint shapes that disappeared when I looked straight at them. I clutched the knife from the emergency kit, whispering prayers I barely remembered. Sleep came in fragments, broken by dreams of her calling from beneath the water.
Days blurred. My skin cracked, my mind drifted. I talked to her voice in the wind, half-believing she was still close. Then came the storm—sheets of rain, the raft spinning like a leaf. I screamed for help, for forgiveness, for anything. Lightning split the horizon, showing only endless water.
On the eighth day, I saw it—a massive cargo ship. I waved the emergency flag, my arm trembling so hard I nearly dropped it. Someone shouted from the deck. A life ring hit the water. I swam toward it, muscles burning. Hands grabbed mine, pulling me aboard.
Wrapped in a blanket, I sat shivering as a crewman handed me water. “Your mother?” he asked gently.
I shook my head. Tears came without warning. “She’s gone.”
They called the Coast Guard, but I already knew. The sea had claimed her.
Even now, back on solid ground, I wake up hearing the water rushing in, the sound of her voice fading beneath the waves. The ocean keeps its secrets. And that night—it kept her.
"The Red Water":
I decided to head out to the small lake behind my old family property that evening after work. The week at the warehouse had been brutal—long hours, sore shoulders, the kind of exhaustion that gnaws at your patience. Fishing was the one thing that always helped me reset. The lake was hidden deep behind the tree line, down a narrow dirt trail that wound through the pines. No signs, no trails on any map—just the way I liked it. I’d grown up casting lines there with my dad, but these days I usually went alone. My wife stayed home with the kids, and I promised I’d be back before ten.
I grabbed my rod, a small tackle box, and a flashlight, then drove the pickup to the edge of the woods. The sun had already dipped low, painting the horizon with streaks of orange and fading violet. The walk in took maybe fifteen minutes. The earth was soft from last night’s rain, and every step released the smell of damp pine and moss. Crickets screamed from the brush, and a few frogs croaked from somewhere out by the water.
When I reached the lake, it looked exactly as I remembered—still and black, ringed by trees so thick they swallowed the last bit of daylight. The air was cool, almost too still. I set up on a flat rock I’d used since I was a kid and baited my hook with a fat worm. The cast landed with a soft plunk that sent ripples across the glassy surface. For a while, it was peaceful. A fish tugged once or twice, but nothing serious. I was fine with that; it wasn’t about the catch tonight.
Then I noticed movement on the far side of the lake. At first, I figured it was a deer drinking, or maybe a raccoon scrounging by the shore. But as my eyes adjusted, I realized it was a person. A man. He stood knee-deep in the shallows, hunched over something metallic. After a few seconds, I saw it clearly—a large metal drum. He tipped it forward, pouring out a thick stream of liquid that hit the water with a low, gurgling sound.
The color caught the last of the light—dark, almost black, with a reddish tint.
Oil? Paint?
Something worse?
The smell carried faintly across the lake, sharp and metallic. I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted, “Hey! What are you doing over there?”
The figure froze mid-motion. Slowly, he turned his head toward me. I couldn’t see his face, but I felt his stare, heavy and cold. After a beat, he straightened up, grabbed the drum, and trudged out of the water into the trees without a word.
My pulse quickened. Why run if it was nothing?
I stood there a minute longer, scanning the opposite shore, but the dusk had thickened into full dark. My fishing line bobbed once, then went still. I reeled in fast, packed my gear, and slung the rod over my shoulder.
Halfway back to the truck, I heard a branch snap off to my left. I stopped. The beam from my flashlight swept across tangled underbrush and dripping leaves. Nothing moved.
“Anyone there?” My voice sounded too loud in the quiet.
No answer. Just the chirring of crickets and my own breathing. I started walking faster. Then another crack—behind me this time. I spun around, light cutting through the darkness. For a split second, I thought I saw movement—something slipping behind a tree. My stomach twisted. I jogged the rest of the way, keys already in hand.
By the time I slammed the truck door shut, my hands were trembling. I locked the doors, headlights cutting a white tunnel through the forest road. I didn’t stop until I was back on the paved highway.
At home, my wife was cleaning up after dinner. I told her what I’d seen—kept my voice light, tried to sound casual. “Probably some idiot dumping waste,” I said. “I’ll call the environmental people tomorrow.”
She frowned, setting her dish towel down. “That’s not normal, though. You sure it wasn’t something else?”
“Yeah,” I said, though the image of that red liquid still burned in my head. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
We ate late. The kids were already asleep upstairs. Around midnight, I was lying awake, replaying the scene over and over—the way he’d turned, the stillness in him, the red that wasn’t quite red. The thought hit me like a shiver: what if it wasn’t paint?
Then came a knock at the door.
Three slow, deliberate thuds.
My wife stirred beside me. “Who could that be this late?” she whispered.
I grabbed my phone—no missed calls—and slipped into jeans. Another knock, this time softer, from the side window near the kitchen.
I crept downstairs, bathed in the weak glow of the porch light. I peered through the curtain. Nothing. Then a voice, low and calm, floated through the glass.
“Excuse me. I think you saw me at the lake earlier. I’d just like to explain myself.”
My blood went cold.
How the hell did he know where I lived?
“Who are you?” I called out. “How did you find me?”
No answer. Then: “Sir, if you could just open the door, I can explain everything. It won’t take long.”
My wife appeared halfway down the stairs, pale and wide-eyed. “Don’t,” she mouthed.
“Leave now, or I’m calling the police,” I said, louder.
A pause. Then footsteps crunching on gravel, fading toward the road.
I called it in. The dispatcher said they’d send a patrol to check. We waited upstairs, lights on, every creak in the house making my heart jump. The officers arrived, did a quick sweep, said they found nothing. “Probably some prank,” one of them said. “Lock up tight.”
I tried to believe that. I really did.
But around two a.m., glass shattered downstairs.
My wife screamed. I bolted upright, grabbed the bat from under the bed. “Stay here,” I told her. “Call 911.”
I crept down, feet bare against the cold floor. The kitchen window was smashed, the curtain fluttering in the wind. Footsteps creaked on the stairs—slow, steady.
He was coming up.
When the door to the hall swung open, I saw him clearly for the first time. Short, solid build. Beard. Glasses. Black flannel shirt. The same man from the lake. His right hand held a knife that caught the faint hall light.
“You shouldn’t have yelled at me,” he said quietly. “Now I have to make sure you don’t tell anyone.”
I tightened my grip on the bat. “Get out,” I growled.
“It’s too late for that.”
From upstairs, my wife’s voice cracked through the air. “Police are coming!”
He hesitated, head tilting slightly, listening. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance.
Then he lunged.
I swung hard. The bat connected with his arm with a sickening crack. He dropped the knife but rammed into me, both of us crashing into the wall. We struggled—grunts, broken glass, picture frames hitting the floor. I kneed him hard, shoved him back toward the window.
He stumbled, snarled, “This isn’t over,” then vaulted through the broken frame, slicing his hand open on the glass. The sound of his footsteps faded into the dark.
The police arrived minutes later. They found blood on the sill, a trail leading into the woods. I told them everything—about the lake, the drum, the red liquid.
The next day, they found fresh tire tracks near the far shore. No drum. No containers. But in the mud, a partial boot print matched one from my kitchen floor. The blood sample came back two days later: Robert Kline, local butcher, prior assault charges, lived two towns over.
When they caught him hiding in a shed, he claimed he’d only been dumping animal waste. But the knife from my kitchen floor told another story—it carried traces of both human and animal blood, old and new. The investigation widened: missing pets, unclaimed remains, an unsolved hiker disappearance years ago near the same lake.
He took a plea deal—fifteen years. I testified at the hearing. When I asked him why he came after me, he just smiled and said, “You saw too much.”
We sold the family land soon after. I don’t fish alone anymore, not at night.
Sometimes, when the wind’s just right, I still think I hear that low gurgle of liquid hitting water. And I wonder—was he really working alone?
The lake’s still there, hidden and quiet. But every secret eventually floats back to the surface.
"The Last Cast":
We both worked desk jobs in the city, staring at screens for hours until our eyes burned and our shoulders ached. It felt like life was just passing under the hum of fluorescent lights. So when Chris suggested biking across parts of the country—stopping at rivers to fish along the way—it sounded perfect. Open roads, quiet water, and no deadlines. I hadn’t felt that kind of excitement in years.
In June 1977, we set out from Portland with two bikes, a tent, and a couple of rods strapped to our frames. For days we pedaled through Oregon’s backroads—past wheat fields shimmering in the wind, pine-covered hills, and empty rest stops that smelled of dust and rain. By the time we reached a small state park tucked along a winding river, our legs were shot, but the sight of the water revived us. The river was clear and fast, curling around boulders with deep pools where trout might rest.
We locked our bikes to a cedar and unpacked near the bank. Chris, always the optimist, pointed his rod at the water. “They say this river’s full of fish,” he said. “Tonight, we’re eating fresh.”
I laughed, threading my line with a fly. “Let’s make it quick before it gets dark.”
The first hour was pure calm. The air smelled of wet moss and cedar. Fireflies hovered over the shallows. Chris caught a small trout—silver, slick, fighting with everything it had. He grinned like a kid, held it up for me to see, then released it.
But as dusk deepened, something shifted. The woods went unnaturally still. Somewhere behind us, a twig snapped. Then another. I turned, shining my flashlight toward the trees. Just branches, shadows, and the faint rustle of leaves.
“Probably a deer,” I muttered.
Chris hesitated. “Or someone else fishing. Hello out there?”
Silence.
We shrugged it off and kept casting, though neither of us said much after that. I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. It wasn’t just nerves—something was out there. The kind of quiet that makes your heartbeat sound too loud.
When the bites stopped coming, we packed up and crawled into the tent. Chris stretched out on his sleeping bag. “Good call on this spot,” he said, zipping the flap shut. “Peaceful. No crowds.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Too peaceful.”
He laughed softly, and soon we were talking about routes, about the next stretch south. But our voices trailed off, and sleep crept in.
That’s when the night split open.
An engine roared to life somewhere nearby—loud, guttural, and angry. Gravel spun under tires. The sound grew fast, closer, until headlights washed over the thin fabric of our tent.
“What the hell—?” Chris sat up, but before he could move, the truck lunged forward.
The impact crushed us flat. The world became noise—metal and canvas ripping, bones snapping. My chest caved, my breath vanished. I screamed, or thought I did, but it was drowned out by the engine’s roar. The truck reversed, tires spitting dirt, then slammed into us again.
When it stopped, there was only the ticking of the engine cooling. Then a door creaked open. Footsteps approached—slow, deliberate.
Through torn fabric, I saw him: a man silhouetted by starlight. Broad shoulders, cap low on his head. In his hand, something glinted—a long-handled axe, edge catching the faintest shine.
“Please,” Chris gasped beside me. “Please don’t—”
The man didn’t speak. He raised the axe and brought it down. Once. Twice. The sound was thick and final, like a log splitting. Chris thrashed, screamed. The man struck again, each swing deliberate, brutal.
“Stop!” I shouted, dragging myself up, reaching for him. Pain tore through my ribs. The axe turned toward me. He swung—caught my arm. I felt the bone crack, white-hot pain flooding my vision.
I rolled, gasping, the next swing grazing my side. My hand hit mud and glass. I kicked weakly, screaming for help that wouldn’t come.
He stood over me, breathing hard. For a moment, I thought he was done. Then he wiped the blade on his jeans, turned, and walked back to his truck. The door slammed. The engine started. He drove off slow, as if satisfied.
Silence fell. The smell of gasoline and blood hung thick in the air.
“Chris?” I whispered. “Hey… come on.”
No answer. I touched his shoulder. Still warm. No movement.
Something inside me cracked—not just ribs, but something deeper. I crawled from the wreckage, dragging myself toward the faint shimmer of the road. My limbs didn’t feel real anymore—just pain and dirt and survival. Thorns tore my hands, my face. The park seemed endless.
Then, at last, the hiss of tires. Headlights swelled. I stumbled into the beam, waving weakly.
A car screeched to a stop. A woman’s voice cried out, “Oh my God!”
“Attacked…” I croaked. “My friend’s still back there…”
The driver, a man, ran toward the campsite with her. Minutes blurred. They came back carrying Chris, pale and soaked in blood. “He’s alive,” the man said. “Barely.”
Sirens followed—the kind you hear in dreams. Paramedics shouting, lights flashing. I remember hands on me, a mask, a needle. Then darkness.
When I woke in the hospital, days had passed. My arm was in a cast, ribs bound, tubes running from my chest. Chris was in the next room. They said he survived, but with brain damage—lost an eye, partial memory. He barely spoke.
Police came with notebooks and questions. I told them what I saw: the truck, the shape of the man, the sound of his voice—though I couldn’t make out words. They found the tire tracks, the torn tent, the blood—but no weapon, no prints, no suspect.
Years later, I went back. I couldn’t help it. The town hadn’t changed much—same diner, same gas station. In the police archives, one name kept surfacing: a local ranch hand with a violent streak. Assault charges, dropped each time. When I saw him once, crossing Main Street, I froze. His face—it was the one I remembered from the shadows. Cold. Unbothered.
The statute of limitations had long expired. Nothing anyone could do.
Chris and I drifted apart not long after. Some wounds heal wrong, some never do. I still wake up some nights hearing that engine revving in the dark, headlights bleeding through canvas.
I haven’t fished since. The river feels cursed now—like it remembers everything.