Sandra exhaled.
“I signed your certified receipt.”
“I know.”
“I never opened the packet.”
“I know that now too.”
She came Saturday as well.
The meeting was scheduled for two in the afternoon.
That morning, I went fishing.
I considered staying inside.
Preparing.
Rehearsing.
Instead I woke at six, made coffee, carried my tackle box down to the dock, and cast into the same water where Granddad had taught me.
It was almost perfectly still.
I needed that.
Fishing has never been about fish for me.
It is repetition.
Knot.
Cast.
Wait.
Reel.
Quiet enough that thoughts eventually arrange themselves.
There was another part of my relationship with the lake Gail did not know.
Six years earlier, I had joined a volunteer conservation program coordinated through the Wisconsin wildlife division.
The lake had always supported fish naturally, but I wanted to improve habitat and track water quality.
Twice a year, I helped receive approved fingerlings from the regional hatchery.
Bass.
Bluegill.
Some channel catfish.
I maintained stocking logs.
Water temperature.
Clarity.
Dissolved oxygen.
pH.
Vegetation observations.
I sent reports.
Nothing glamorous.
Just stewardship.
The state knew the lake by parcel.
They knew my name.
They had years of records connecting Cody Anderson to that private water.
I did not consider that important to my fight with Gail.
Until I heard engines coming down the gravel lane.
First Gail’s SUV.
Then the state wildlife truck.
My stomach tightened.
She had timed it perfectly.
Board meeting at two.
Wildlife officers in the morning.
If she could get me cited, removed, or arrested before Tom and Sandra saw the evidence, she could walk into that afternoon telling the board:
See? Even the state recognizes him as the violator.
Gail got out.
White blouse.
Arms crossed.
The truck stopped behind her.
Two officers emerged.
I set down my rod.
Gail immediately began speaking.
“That’s the man.”
The lead officer walked toward the dock.
I stayed still.
When he reached the boards, his boots made the old pine creak.
He looked at me.
Then stopped.
His face changed.
“Cody?”
That one word altered the entire morning.
“Yes.”
“Cody Anderson?”
“Yes, sir.”
He lifted his sunglasses.
“Dan Garrett. Wildlife Division.”
I recognized the name.
He had reviewed one of my stocking summaries.
“I think I’ve seen your reports for years,” he said.
“Six.”
“The bluegill data?”
“That’s me.”
Gail’s heels stopped behind him.
Garrett looked toward the water.
“Your oxygen numbers stayed surprisingly good during that hot spell two summers ago.”
“Spring feed helps.”
He nodded.
Then remembered why he was there.
“We received a complaint.”
“I figured.”
“Illegal harvest. Trespass. Poaching from HOA-owned water.”
He glanced over his shoulder toward Gail.