W. Kerr Scott Dam & Reservoir

My bobber, a piece of cheap white-red plastic, bobs up and down a few feet from the boat dock. I saw one at the tackle store that was shaped like a duck, but Dad said no.

“Sing to the fishies,” Other Grandma tells me. I did that last year, and she thought it was so funny that she hasn’t let it go.

“Here, fishy fishy fishy,” I call. Nothing happens. Maybe that’s better. If I catch one, she might make me touch it.

My grandma smells like beer, and the sun has pinched my cheeks too aggressively today.