Bill reeled in his line and switched hooks. We’d been fishing since Friday and all we had to show for our efforts was an undernourished trout we’d have thrown back any other time.

“Reckon that’ll change our luck?” I asked.

“Probably not,” Bill sighed, tugging at the collar of his jacket. He wasn’t enjoying himself. I was happy to sit and chill, but Bill was a demanding angler and grew impatient when things weren’t going his way. “I told you it was the wrong time of year.”

“Quit moaning,” I retorted. “What else would you be doing? Reading or fiddling with fireworks in your cellar. At least here we can enjoy the fresh air.”

“Long way to come for that,” Bill grumbled.

“There’s the view too,” I noted, nodding downstream at the trees and fields. In the distance we could see the hump of the city’s skyline, but it didn’t distract too much from the beauty of the open countryside.

Bill’s expression softened. “Know what we should do? Build a shack and move out. Fish from dusk till dawn.”

“Sounds good to me, Huck Finn.”

Bill smiled and jiggled his line. “We should do it.”

“I’m with you all the way.”

He sighed. “But we won’t, will we?”

“Nope.” He looked so miserable, I had to laugh. “We’re city boys. We wouldn’t last pissing time living wild.”