In a quiet bend of the river lived two trout: Old Finn, who had survived three floods, two droughts, and one summer involving a boy with a net, and young Skip, who had survived mostly on confidence.
One afternoon, a fat, juicy worm drifted past them on the current.
Skip’s eyes widened.
“Now that,” he said, “is lunch.”
Old Finn squinted at it. The worm bobbed unnaturally, drifting just a little too perfectly. Above it, barely visible, was a thin line disappearing into the bright world beyond the water.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Finn said.
Skip swished his tail. “You wouldn’t do anything if you were me. You’re old.”
“I’m old because I didn’t do everything I wanted to do,” Finn replied.
“But it’s a worm!”
“So was the last one I saw.”
“What happened?”
“It turned out to be attached to a man named Earl.”
Skip laughed. “Earl? That doesn’t sound dangerous.”
“Earl had a hat, a folding chair, and six hours with nothing better to do.”
The worm floated closer.
Skip’s stomach growled loud enough to scare a minnow.
“I’m going for it,” he announced.
Finn sighed. “At least chew slowly.”
Skip darted forward, opened his mouth, and—just as he was about to bite—heard a splash behind him.
A huge bass shot past, swallowed the worm in one gulp, and vanished upward like a torpedo.
There was a violent splash. The line snapped. Earl yelled something that made the ducks blush.
A few seconds later, the bass came rocketing back into the river, furious, wearing a shiny silver hook in the corner of his mouth and what looked suspiciously like Earl’s hat on his head.
Skip stared.
Finn watched the bass disappear downstream. “Well,” he said, “looks like Earl lost another one.”
Skip slowly turned toward the old trout.
“You knew that would happen?”
“No,” Finn said. “But I knew it was possible.”
Skip looked at the riverbank, then at the empty water where the worm had been.
“So what do we eat now?”
Old Finn pointed with his nose toward a patch of rocks.
“Mayflies. They’re boring, tiny, and completely unattached to Earl.”
From that day forward, Skip still made plenty of foolish decisions—he was young, after all—but before making the really big ones, he listened to Old Finn.
And Old Finn, who was old enough to know better, tried not to say, “I told you so.”
Usually.
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