I’d found the cane poles in the corner of the machine shed when Vern bought the eighty. He’d saved
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them. Two of them, twelve feet long, with the line wrapped around the end and a little red and white bobber still clipped on each one.
One had a strip of white tape around the bottom with JESS written on it in Grandpa’s handwriting.
The other said BRIT.
I was holding mine.
Hers was lying on the dock beside me.
I heard a truck on the field road. Then a door. Then footsteps coming down through Vern’s pasture. Slow, heavy steps.
Vern came down the hill in his overalls and his seed cap. He was carrying something in one hand. An
old metal tackle box, green, with rust around the hinges.
He came out onto the dock. It held. He stopped beside me.
