Maddie Butchko
The world hums. The sharp exhale of breath, the rhythmic slap of my sneakers against pavement, the distant honk of a car. A shopping cart rattles over uneven sidewalk, the low murmur of two students scurrying to class, the rustling of wind through skeletal branches. I hear it all in fragments. My mind registers noise — nothing more.
Every Friday afternoon, I go on long runs through New Haven. I run down Chapel Street, past brick facades and shop windows, past the cafe where chairs scrape against tile floors, past the bakery where the scent of caramelized crust and browned butter lingers in the air. The city moves in its own unbroken rhythm, a composition of sound that never stops.
I keep running until I reach the river. The boardwalk stretches out over the water, the wood creaking under my steps as I slow to a walk. The air smells of damp wood and sun-warmed metal. The river holds the late-afternoon light in fractured pieces, scattering it like tossed coins across the surface.
And that’s when I see him.
He stands at the edge of the boardwalk, motionless except for the occasional flick of his wrist, reeling his line in slow, steady movements. His hair is long, thick, black with strands of silver, tied back at the nape of his neck. Tattoos stretch across his forearms, curling around his knuckles — intricate inkwork of animals, patterns, stories written into his skin. His leather boots are worn, his jacket faded, and when he turns, his eyes are dark and sun-creased at the edges. He is older than me, maybe in his fifties.
I am 18, in my first year of college. I do not fear strangers, yet. I grew up in a small Michigan town, where curiosity and courtesy outweighed caution. All I know is that the man is fishing. I haven’t fished in years — not since I was six, when I caught a turtle by accident and cried over the hook embedded in its mouth.
“What are you fishing for?” I ask.
He turns his rod. The reel clicks. “Trout.”
“How can you tell where they are?”
He looks at me, then at the river, then back at me again. He lifts his chin toward the surface. “You see that shimmer?”
I follow his gaze. I watch the sun strike the surface; the water bending, scattering its light. He gestures with his hand, tracing the air. “The way light moves — that’s how you know where they are. Watch the ripples, the shading.”
I squint, trying to follow the rhythm of the current, where the water folds over itself again and again until the patterns become too small to distinguish. Just beneath, I catch the faintest shift — tiny, flickering specks. Gray bodies slipping through the green-blue, barely more than quivering shadows.
“To track them,” he says. “Follow the light.”
His name is Bear. He tells me he is Native American, that he has spent years along the water, and that catching fish is something he has always known how to do. He tells me about the winding rivers he grew up near, about the first time he caught a fish — big beautiful bass — when he was four. He tells me about his daughter, Diamond, and how he wishes she was still here.
“You two would be good friends,” he says.
He tells me stories about his past. About the drugs, the drinking, the violent things he had seen. He pauses, threading another worm onto the hook. He asks if I know how to fight. I don’t. Not at all. He nods and tells me I should carry a gun. I had never considered buying a gun. Perhaps I was lucky I never needed one.
Bear looks me up and down before describing the perfect gun for me. A small, cute one — one of those handguns. The ideal size to slip into a purse. But Bear says it the way someone gives advice they know won’t be taken, even if he believes it. He doesn’t insist, and the words settle between us.
I ask him why I need a gun. He laughs, at least I thought he did. But it’s short, almost sad— abrupt, like a door snapping shut on something heavier.
“The world is not kind to girls like you.”
He reels in a fish. I watch its small body contorting midair, scales flashing silver as it writhes against the line.
“That’s why you need a gun.” He laughs again, this time full and unguarded, his head tipping back toward the sky. “At the very least, you should know how to throw a punch.”
“I’ll work on it,” I say with my eyes still wide.
Bear sighs, shaking his head. “If not, well — damn, just go for the balls.” We both break into laughter.
He inspects his catch, fingers running over its belly, before unhooking it and slipping it back into the river.
I let my eyes drift across the river’s expanse, tracing its path until it thins into a distant thread of navy. Bear redirects my gaze, pointing to the saffron-streaked currents straight ahead.
“Where there is light, there is fish.”
The sun glints against the surface, and I think about how, a few hours ago, I wouldn’t have noticed where the ripples broke apart and the families of fish below. He casts his line again; his eyes steady and his words just the same. I lean forward against the railing, listening.
Some people talk to be understood. Others talk to be noticed, to be liked. Bear speaks with no such need. His words drift, moving without urgency nor demand. They settle into the air, unhurried, unafraid of being lost in the hum of the world. He talks and I stand beside him, the sun bleeding into the water, watching the river catch the last light of the day.