The fish gasps and strains at the bottom of the rusty tackle box. It seems like a pretty awful thing to do: leaving it like that until it asphyxiates. Cruel and maybe unnecessarily so. But after a moment, she carefully closes the sides of the tackle box; she keeps one foot on each side, as much to steady herself as it is to stay away of the fish inside the box. Breakfast, Joel calls it. Breakfast.

She swings her pole around, reaffirming her grip on the handle - getting the angle sorted again. "Well maybe if you started pulling your weight around here, Joel," she starts to say, casting out her line with a snap of the wrist. It goes sailing out, hitting the water with a 'plunk.'