We prepare on edge of the wooden pier, glancing out into the large expanse of the lake that we usually fish at. It’s calming, I guess. The snowy mountains are about a mile and a half from us—the perfect distance for a good view. I puff out a cloud of heated air and rub my hands against my coat.

It’s cold, I think to myself.

“You have the rods?” The other man said. He was growing gray hair and had a scar on his left eye, under his eyepatch. I look away from the man. Fishing wasn't really something I enjoyed doing but we needed the fish to exchange things.

The metal bucket near my boots holds the bait.

I pass him a pole and take one for myself, placing the mackerel on the hook, reeling in then releasing my line into the water.

After all that happened, this is what my life has become. It isn't all that bad, I guess.