“How’s the finger?”
“Ahhhh.” Sitting cross-legged in a living room chair, watching Fox News and backlit by the sepia glow of an approaching sunrise, my brother dropped the remote and raised his bandaged digit. The disgusted look on his face told me I’d be fishing alone this morning.
He took a sip from his cup of coffee. Up since well before me, Tim was probably on pot No. 2.
“Nah. Turned them off at 7 last night. You should be good. I’d go up and fish the riffle. There are big browns up there.”
“I think somebody’s already fishing it.”
“That’s Mr. Davis. He won’t be there long. Probably just long enough to smoke a cigar.”
I yawned and instinctively stretched.
“I won’t bug him. I’ll stay a little downstream.”
The question floated downstream, over the moss-covered rocks and the gentle riffle and through the angled sycamores and honey locusts before it was eventually drowned in the happy noise of a splashing rainbow trout and the subtle giggling of a man who had once again figured them out.