It seemed as if it were only yesterday that Scott had been fishing. But for the life of him, he couldn’t really recall when that was.
Instead, he found himself sitting idly along the bank of the river he loved so well, fishing line in and its red and white bobber floating gently down the stream. Life was great for the young teen.
He could see the men, some in uniforms passing up and down the river’s bank on the far side, as if searching for something. Scott watched as two small boats, one wood, the other aluminum, slipped by trolling the waters.
“No fishing poles,” he thought, “No fishing line in the water. What are they doing?”
He felt a slight tug on the end of his line. The smallish jerk caused the colorful float to momentarily disappear beneath the water and reappear again.
Methodically and patiently, he reeled in his line. He was slow and purposeful in his actions, bringing whatever had taken his bait, to the bank without a fight.
It was a skill that he’d learned from his grandfather when he was child.
A voice shouted, garnering Scott’s attention, “Found him! He’s over here!”
“Found what?” Scott asked himself.
This was followed by a sudden and violent yanking to his once quiet fishing line. One of the nearby boats had snagged it as it passed by.
Then Scott remembered how he’d been fishing three days before, how he had slipped in the mud, how he had struck his head on a rock and toppled into the water. He remembered it all, that very moment he saw them pull his lifeless body from the river.
The burst of luminescence and its warmth was both brief and immediate.