The dingy ripped through the water like a skate on ice. It was surgical the way it moved, something Wally had always known but could now fully appreciate behind the wheel. His grandfather took great pleasure in cruising around in the boat at high speed, but only now, with wind streaming through his hair, did Wally realize he’d only scratched the surface.

Wally found himself a part of a crisp autumn morning; the crowning jewel of a small Upstate New York lake like this, the one he’d grown up on. The sun was rising lazily, its red-yellow glow cast upon the water like welder’s iron. A collage of leaves blew along the water and ducks scratched its surface as they took to the sky to avoid the noisy, old boat.

It was a perfect morning to skip middle school and a perfect morning to fish. But more than anything, thought Wally, it was a perfect day to reunite with an old friend.

It was a reunion that had taken immense planning, and even now, Wally marveled that he’d been able to pull it off so skillfully. He’d roused himself early this morning, earlier than the sun and earlier than his alarm. It was the only morning that would work, his grandmother out of the house with her friend Ella, getting an early start to beat the traffic to the outlet mall. They’d been discussing the logistics of the trip for months. It was excessive for a trip that would take little under an hour of car travel, but Wally wasn’t asked his opinion, so he hadn’t offered it. Wally hadn’t even needed to scheme to get specific details, the agenda of the siege had been laid bare at the old dining room table. All he needed to do was read, not one of his strengths, but with time he’d accomplished it.

So, Wally had gotten up this morning, snagged the old thermometer, and ran it under some hot water, doing his best to be quiet. The old pipes did him no favors, and several times he had to stop, worried he’d awoken his grandfather. Hot water on Canada Lake was a luxury, and certainly not one used to skip school, but Wally needed this to work. His friend needed him, and it was worth risking a beating from his grandfather to accomplish this. As both he and his grandfather had grown older, these beatings had become more ceremonial than anything. He didn’t fear them like he once had, and they left little to no marks when done.

With the thermometer prepared, he’d climbed back into bed and called for his grandmother, who was already up, applying makeup for her journey. The ballad of a sick child had begun, her feeling his forehead (which he’d also run under hot water), him complaining, and her getting the thermometer. When it read 99.7, Wally had known he was clear. His grandma had half-heartedly suggested she stay home, but Wally had waved her off, saying he would be fine and just needed to rest. His grandfather had stopped in before heading off to work, and when Wally finally heard Ella’s station wagon putter off, he knew he was alone.

He’d thrown on a hoodie and two flannels of differing colors over it, knowing as the sun came up, he’d only want one. He put his fishing pants on and wrestled on his boots over the pant legs. Running out of the house, the screen door slamming behind him, he scooped up his tackle box and rod and set off in the Ding-Ay, not only what his grandfather called the boat, but what was also scrawled on the side of it.

Wally cast a line, now at the far edge of the lake at his favorite fishing spot. It wasn’t as fruitful as under the Tacoma Bridge, the area notorious for large pickerels and bass who gathered in the depths amidst the rushing currents, but it also wasn’t as frequented. Wally’s spot had lily pads, at the edge of which you could catch constant yellow perch and the occasional small mouth bass. It was always peaceful though and because he’d introduced his friend here, that’s where they often met.

Wally caught a few perch to start the morning, but not what he’d been hoping for. He kept them in a bucket on the boat but continued to cast. As the full light of the sun began to touch the lake, Wally finally had a big hit on the line. Exhilarated, he did his best to let it drag before giving a pull and setting the hook. The line zigzagged and Wally began to reel, drinking in the mystery of the catch that the mirror-still water refused to reveal. When alongside the boat, he saw that it was a small mouth bass, as he’d expected based on the fight. It was large and it was perfect for his friend.

It took several minutes for the fish to die, gasping for breath on the deck of the boat. Wally, who was normally used to his catch and release method, looked away. It was nature, and Wally was a hunter, and he’d even seen his grandfather put-down a horse who’d broken its leg in a barbwire fence once, but he didn’t want to watch if he didn’t have to. Fish had a questioning look in their eyes always, and he couldn’t stand to listen to its final gasps.

When it stopped flopping and its gills stopped fluttering, Wally scooped the fish, tied it up with a rope he’d brought, and drove Ding-Ay slowly toward shore. A tree branch stretched out over the lake, and he only stopped once he was able to grab hold of it, stopping the boat. There was a frayed rope already hanging from it, the remnants of a swing that once was but was no longer. In his childhood, he’d thought of resurrecting it once or twice but never gotten past the dreamed concoction of the plan.

He threw the rope with the fish over the bough, tied it twice so it would hold, and dropped the dead bass deep into the water. It plunked quietly before sinking out of view.

And then all Wally could do was wait.

He sat back in his chair, whistling and casting a new line. But his attention never left the string that hung before him.

He waited and waited for his friend, at one point becoming fearful he may not show.

And then with a resounding thwack, he was there.

The full force of the impact shook the whole tree, once, twice, and then was done. The rope was still once more. Wally smiled, watching the shoreline.

Finally, two eyes emerged from the water, then a snout, and then his friend flopped unto the shore, the bass’ tail hanging from his mouth.

“Hey Levi” said Wally.

His former pet didn’t respond, just nibbled on the fish, oblivious.

Leviathan, Levi for short, had grown into a majestic animal, just as Wally had hoped he would when he’d released him as a hatchling.

Wally hadn’t been sure Levi would survive then, but he’d known he wouldn’t in the small hole in the woods behind the house.

Grabbing one of the perch, Wally lobbed it onto the shore next to Levi.

He sat and watching his friend for a while as he finished his meals and then opened his mouth, preparing to soak in the sun, like a cat at noon.

Wally hoped Levi remained unseen, and he continued to grow with the plethora of fish available in Canada Lake.

But more than anything, Wally hoped Levi was happy.

“It’s good to see you, pal” he said with a smile, before revving the dingy engine and setting off back to the house.