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Downstream Birdie spotted the old cottonwood that had fallen across the creek long ago. The water pooled deep and dark behind the log and then cascaded over the wide trunk. This had always been the best fishing hole, but the rainbows overwintered in Juniper Lake, and Birdie wasn't sure they were in the creek yet. She hadn't noticed any swimming in the shallows.

Birdie crouched on the bank and opened the tackle box. She found the hunting knife she kept in there, and she used it to cut the old, rusty swivel off the line. After she tied on a new swivel and clipped on a lure, she walked out onto the cottonwood log, careful to not slip on the wet, rotten wood where the bark had fallen away.

Her first casts were duds. One caught on a willow bush until she yanked it free, and the other smacked clumsily into the water directly in front of her. She reeled in again, flipped the bail, and tried an underhand cast, and the lure dropped perfectly into the far eddy. She let it sink for a few counts, gave a tug to get the spinner working, and reeled slowly. She could feel the lure bumping against something, but it was probably only snagging on a sunken tree limb or the bottom of the creek.

She varied where she cast and how fast she reeled. She knew she might be fishing an empty hole, but it didn't matter. It was enough to be out here, to let the sunlight and the green of the forest, the sound of the creek and the summer birdsong, wash over her. What if she could stay out here all day, walking along the bank and casting her line, not thinking about anything but finding the trout? Moss under her feet, birch branches and blue sky over her head, no one demanding anything of her. Why couldn't that be her real life? But it wasn't. Eventually she'd have to go back and face Della, who would still be pissed off about last night. And she would need to call Grandma Jo to see if she could watch Emaleen because it was Saturday and the bar would be busy again. Birdie should have asked sooner, but lately Jo seemed put out whenever Birdie needed something. To make it worse, Jo would have to drive to the lodge and pick up Emaleen. Birdie's car was still broken down, something with the transmission that was going to cost more money than she made in a month. She found herself doing the math for the umpteenth time. Twice-a-month paycheck plus her average tips, minus monthly expenses and the pile of fees she still owed at the bank for the checks she bounced a while back—if she had to pay for childcare, she might as well quit her job and go on food stamps. As it was, even if she scrimped here and saved there, she couldn't see being able to get the car fixed until fall. She was sick of begging rides and money, shuffling Emaleen around like a piece of luggage. It was like trying to win a dull, monotonous game someone else had invented, a game that, in the end, didn't matter one lick. The drinking and partying, she knew it was stupid, but it was just a way to feel some excitement at being alive.

As soon as your thoughts drift away, that's when the fish strikes. Birdie felt a sudden tug on the line, and as she yanked upward on the rod, her right foot slipped, so that she nearly fell. She caught her balance and continued to reel, letting the trout take line when it swam hard away from her. The fish leapt and splashed, and then there was nothing. She was sure it had broken the old line, but as she reeled, she saw the lure dragging across the water. She just hadn't set it well enough. She reeled all the way in, untangled the line from the lure, and checked that the hook hadn't been bent or damaged. She cast again.

In that moment, the ache in her head began to fade and that other sensation—the mess of guilt and resentment that made her want to gasp and thrash and fight—vanished. It was as if her mind narrowed to a point that ran down the clear line and into the cool, dark water. She cast to the far side of the creek again and again, poised to feel any bump or tug.

And then she had it. This one was bigger than the first, and it bent the tip of her rod and took out line, but she worked it lightly, pulling up, reeling down, keeping the line taut. Don't horse it in, Grandpa Hank would say. You got it, you got it.

Birdie jumped down from the log and carefully reeled the fish up onto the bank. It was a beautiful rainbow trout, easily eighteen inches long and in its vibrant spawning colors—a dark, iridescent greenish brown with black flecks that reminded Birdie of hazel eyes, and a distinct blush stripe down its sides. The hook came easily out of its mouth. She could slip the trout back into the creek and let it swim away, but she would keep it. It'd been a long time since she and Emaleen had fresh trout to eat.

She took the hunting knife and stabbed the trout through the top of the head to kill it, then crouched at the water's edge to clean the fish. As she pulled out the entrails, the mosquitoes and gnats began to swarm. She wiped them away from her face with the back of her hand. Inside the trout's body cavity, she ran her thumb along the backbone to remove the dark-red kidney, and then she rinsed the fish and her hands clean of the blood.

She glanced at her watch. It'd been nearly two hours. She needed to get back. She hadn't brought a backpack or sack to carry the fish—she hadn't truly expected to catch anything—so she hooked an index finger through the gill plate and out its bony mouth, and with the same hand picked up the fishing rod, and with the other the tackle box. She pictured sneaking into the cabin and holding the trout's cold lips to Emaleen's cheek as she slept. Emaleen would wake with a gasp. Hey, Sleeping Beauty, Birdie would say, you're going to turn into a frog now, and Emaleen would laugh. No, Mommy. You're all mixed up. A prince! A prince! That's who kisses Sleeping Beauty.