The promise, as I remember it, happened this way.

A warm August morning, early. Wally Schanno’s already waiting at the landing. His truck’s parked in the lot, his boat’s in the water. He’s drinking coffee from a red thermos big as a fireplug.

Iron Lake is glass. East, it mirrors the peach-colored dawn. West, it still reflects the hard bruise of night. Tall pines, dark in the early morning light, make a black ragged frame around the water.

The dock’s old, weathered, the wood gone fuzzy, flaking gray. The boards sag under my weight, groan a little.

“Coffee?” Schanno offers.

I shake my head, toss my gear into his boat. “Let’s fish.”

We’re far north of Aurora, Minnesota. Among the trees on the shoreline, an occasional light glimmers from one of the cabins hidden there. Schanno motors slowly toward a spot off a rocky point where the bottom falls away quickly. Cuts the engine. Sorts through his tackle box. Pulls out a pearl white minnow flash, a decent clear-water lure for walleye. Clips it on his line. Casts.

Me, I choose a smoky Twister Tail and add a little fish scent. Half a minute after Schanno’s, my lure hits the water.

August isn’t the best time to fish. For one thing, the bugs are awful. Also, the water near the surface is often too warm. The big fish-walleye and bass-dive deep, seeking cooler currents. Unless you use sonar, they can be impossible to locate. There are shallows near a half-submerged log off to the north where something smaller- perch or crappies-might be feeding. But I’ve already guessed that fishing isn’t what’s on Schanno’s mind.

The afternoon before, he’d come to Sam’s Place, the burger joint I own on Iron Lake. He’d leaned in the window and asked for a chocolate shake.