The rod wasn’t exactly stolen—more like borrowed indefinitely. Dad hadn’t used it in years, anyway, and it was just sitting there in the garage, gathering dust alongside old hunting boots and the kind of camping gear people keep when they still believe they’ll go camping again.

It was a Winston, deep green with a cork grip stained from years of sweat and fish slime. The battered Hardy reel still had a leader on it, curled up like an old telephone cord. The kid had seen enough magazines to know he needed a fly box and a set of waders, but he had neither. What he had was a few tired-looking dry’s he had lifted from Dad’s fly-tying chest, a stolen pocketknife, and a burning need to get away from the house.

The creek was a mile past the highway, running through a stretch of land where no one came looking for him. He used to kill time there, skipping rocks and waiting for the shouting to stop. But today was different. Word was, an old beaver dam had backed up a deep pool thick with trout. He was going to catch some, no matter what.

The first few casts were a disaster—fly snagging in trees above him, line flopping onto the water like a wet rope. He’d seen it done smoothly enough on TV, but that was by guys with $1000 rods and hands that never shook. His shook plenty, not from fear, but from the kind of energy that builds up when you spend too much time holding your breath at home.

Then, by accident or fate, the line shot forward in something close to a real cast. The fly, some old rust-colored thing still tied to the leader, hit the water with a plop. He started stripping line in jerky, uneven pulls, trying to make it look like the video. Nothing. Then—

A hit.

Not just a hit, but a full-force, hungry slam. The kind of take that snatches your breath before you even have time to react. The rod bent double, and he felt the fight like an electric current in his hands. He pulled too hard, too fast, trying to muscle the fish in like he’d seen his uncle do with a bait caster. The trout—a brown, maybe twelve inches—thrashed, tail-walking across the surface. And then it was gone.

He stood there, line limp, water dripping from his fingertips. He wanted to scream, wanted to break something, wanted to punch himself for losing the fish. But then he just laughed. Loud from his gut. Because for the first time in a long time, the only thing that mattered was that fish, that creek, and that moment. Not the shouting back home, not the belt hanging on the back of the door, not the dread that settled in his chest when the sun went down.

At least the fish had the mercy to leave his borrowed tackle drifting on the surface. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, waded out to grab the fly from the water, and started casting again. This time, he was staying until dark.

The kid stayed on the creek until the last light bled out of the sky. His hands were raw from gripping the cork too tight, his jeans soaked up to the knees, and his stomach growled in protest. None of it meant a damn thing. What drove him now was the rhythm he’d found—the steady draw of the rod, the clean snap at the end of the cast, the way the line cut the air and laid itself down on the water. He wasn’t good yet, not by a long shot, but he was getting better. And better was enough.

The second fish came as a surprise. He’d lost track of time, lost himself in the motion when the line suddenly went tight. This one didn’t explode out of the water like the first. It stayed deep, pulling hard, making his hands tremble. He gritted his teeth and let it run. This time, he didn’t yank back—he waited. Let it wear itself out. When he finally brought it in, cradling its speckled body in his wet hands, he felt something close to reverence. He wasn’t just a kid screwing around in a creek. He was an angler, true as the muck on his creek-soaked denim.

He let the trout go and watched it disappear into the current. Then he reeled in, packed up the rod as best he could, and turned toward home.

By the time he cut back through the fields and climbed the fence into the neighborhood, the streetlights buzzed, and moths knocked against the glass. The house was dark except for the flickering blue of the television. That was good. Meant he could slip in unnoticed.

The rod went back into its place in the garage, leaning against the wall as if it had never moved. He felt a small twist of guilt for taking it, but not enough to stop him from doing it again. Dad hadn’t even noticed it was gone. Hell, maybe he’d even be glad someone was using it.

Inside, the house smelled like stale beer and old takeout. He moved quietly, stepping over a pair of boots, past the sink full of dishes, and into his room. He shut the door and leaned against it, letting the weight of the day settle in his bones. His fingers still smelled like the creek. He liked that.

Lying in bed, he closed his eyes and saw the line slicing through the air, the silver flash of the trout, the way the world shrank down to nothing but the water and the fight. He grinned in the dark.

Tomorrow, he’d go again.

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