Don't Go Home Before Seven

My fishing rod suddenly dipped so hard it nearly yanked me into the river.

The tip bent into a horseshoe. Line screamed off the reel.

I clamped both hands around the rod and shouted, "Marty! Get over here!"

Marty, who was night fishing a little farther down the bank, came running.

"You hook a monster?"

"Do I look like I get this excited over a minnow?"

"Caleb, you've been skunked for three years. You get excited when your hook snags a rock."

I didn't have time to argue.

Whatever was on the end of my line was charging back and forth like it had a personal grudge. My arms burned. My boots sank into the mud.

My phone buzzed. I ignored it.

Two minutes later, it buzzed again.

"Eyes on the water!" Marty yelled. "That's a big one!"

Gritting my teeth, I worked the reel.

After more than twenty minutes of fighting, the fish finally broke the surface.

Its back was almost black, with a bluish sheen, and it was as wide as a garbage-can lid. One swipe of its tail sent river water straight into my face.

Marty got the landing net under it and hauled it onto the bank. Every fisherman within shouting distance came over.

"That's gotta be thirty-five pounds!"

"Captain Skunk finally caught something?"

Somebody brought a digital scale.

Thirty-five pounds. Right on the nose.

I hugged that enormous fish to my chest and grinned until my cheeks ached.

"Pictures! Come on, take pictures! I've waited three years for this!"

Camera flashes lit up the riverbank.

The fish opened and closed its mouth. Its dark, glossy eyes stared straight at me.

For some reason, I thought of the homeless man I'd met earlier.

*You've been feeding all of us.*

A chill crawled down my spine.

"Cold?" Marty asked.

I gave him a stupid grin. "Just excited."

That was when I finally checked my phone.

Three texts, all from Claire Holden, the wife of my next-door neighbor, Bryce.

6:33 p.m.: "Caleb, your wife isn't home. I'm at your place."

6:35 p.m.: "You've been sleeping with me all this time. You can't just dump me!"

6:38 p.m.: "You got angry and stabbed me. I won't hold it against you. I just want you to come back..."

I stared at the screen for two seconds, then burst out laughing.

"What's funny?" Marty asked.

I showed him the phone. "Scammers are writing whole crime dramas now."

Marty didn't laugh. "Who's that?"

"Beats me. Some scammer, probably."

I sounded casual, but my thumb stayed on the screen.

Another text arrived.

6:41 p.m.: "I'm bleeding so much. Why haven't you called an ambulance? Are you really going to let me die?"

My smile faded.

Then came another.

"Fine. I give up too. I won't call for help. I'll die, and it'll be your fault."

My stomach tightened.

"Caleb," Marty said, "maybe call the police."

"About what? I don't even recognize this number."

I hoisted the fish back into my arms.

"I haven't even finished showing this beauty off."

Right then, my wife called.

I answered, still laughing. "Lauren! Guess what I caught!"

A beat of silence.

"A thirty-five-pound fish?"

I blinked. "How'd you know?"

She laughed softly. "Didn't you just post it in your fishing group chat? I saw it."

Then I remembered Marty had already posted the pictures.

"Pretty incredible, right?"

"It really is."

Her voice was warm and gentle.

"Honey, I'm not coming home tonight. Mom isn't feeling well, so I'm going to stay with her."