"Suck it up, old man," she lobs back at him, settling into place as she gently nips her pole back every now and again.

For all Ellie's hesitation, the fish in the tackle box is a quickly forgotten reality. Like sure, it sucks and it seems kind of dick to not just kill it outright (she doesn't mind hunting; if it's not dead when you get to it, you make sure it is pretty quick), but some fish won't be the first thing to have a lingering death and it won't be the last. So eventually that slight line of tension between her eyebrows smooths and her pull on the line gets less snappish. After a few minutes of silence punctuated only by the lap of the water against the hull of the boat (eughk), Ellie starts to whistle a few reliable notes in succession.