The lure mattered more than Kenny was willing to admit. He’d seen it late one night on the Fishing Channel— a Blue Fox spinner flashing across the screen, the blade spinning clean and bright, the promise unmistakable. It wasn’t subtle. It didn’t pretend to be. Kenny bought a dozen. Not because he believed the ad, but because something about it felt finished. Purpose-built.
He polished them the way he did everything else. Hung one from the antenna of his car so the wind would spin the blade as he drove the back roads around Huntsville. Mile after mile, sunlight and motion worked the metal smooth. By the time he tied one on, it spun perfectly. No hesitation. No wobble. Just clean rotation and light.
The day it happened was quiet. No wind. No traffic at the ramp. The backwater sat still, tucked into a calm eddy off the Trinity where the river slowed and rested before feeding the lake. Kenny cast and worked the spinner patiently, letting it move the way he knew big fish preferred— nothing rushed, nothing forced.
When the strike came, it didn’t feel dramatic. It felt heavy. The fish surged deep, pulling line in long, controlled runs. Kenny fought it carefully, his injured hand burning as minutes stretched into an hour. Ninety minutes passed before the fish finally rolled, its size unmistakable. This was it. Bigger than anything he’d ever touched. Bigger than anything he’d imagined from the orphanage window.
He brought the bass alongside the boat and lifted it in, hands shaking, muscles exhausted. The fish lay across the bench, massive and alive, its sides pulsing as it gasped for air. Kenny leaned back, breathless, and felt the rush he’d carried for years finally arrive all at once.
He saw it immediately— the taxidermist, the cabin wall, the exact spot by the fireplace he’d saved in his mind for decades. Word would spread. Respect would follow. No one would question where he belonged ever again.
Then the fish shifted. Kenny leaned closer to free the lure, and without thinking, he looked into its eye.