Chapter 3: The Night Hank Disappeared

This time, I didn’t see Donnelly, but I did run into Hank.

Hank was easy to spot—a scruffy beard, faded ballcap, and a T-shirt with a cartoon catfish on it. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

I was holding my order number, scanning for a seat, when Hank called out to me.

“Hey, Marty!”

His voice cut through the chatter. He waved me over with a half-eaten sandwich in one hand.

I turned around, and he pulled out a chair next to him, inviting me to sit.

Hank always had a way of making you feel welcome, even if you barely knew him. I slid into the seat, grateful to escape the crowd.

I knew Hank—he was obsessed with night fishing, which wasn’t really my thing.

He’d post photos at three in the morning, holding up giant catfish with a goofy grin. I preferred my sleep, but I respected his dedication.

He looked half-asleep as he dug into his sandwich; you could tell he’d pulled another all-nighter at the lake.

His eyes were bloodshot, and he kept yawning between bites. Still, he perked up when he saw me.

He knew Donnelly and I were fishing buddies, so he asked,

“Why’re you flying solo? Where’s Donnelly?”

He raised an eyebrow, chewing thoughtfully, like he was genuinely curious.

I couldn’t talk about the case, so I brushed it off lightly.

“You know Donnelly. His job’s not as easy as yours.”

I tried to sound casual, but I could tell he wasn’t buying it.

“What, is there a big case? I’ve heard things…”

He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. The guy loved a good rumor.

Seeing he was digging for info, I shook my head.

“No idea what’s going on. He won’t say, and I can’t ask.”

I shrugged, hoping he’d drop it. Hank just grunted and took another bite.

Hank nodded, still chewing.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glancing around like he expected Donnelly to walk in any second.

“How about tonight? Wanna go snag a big one together? I found a killer spot.”

His eyes lit up. Hank was always chasing the next big catch, always convinced he’d found the secret honey hole.

Just then, my sandwich arrived.

The smell hit me first—fresh bread, crisp lettuce, tangy mustard. My stomach growled.

The shop was buzzing, so I shouted,

“Hey Ed, can I get some extra pickles?”

Ed gave me a thumbs-up from behind the counter, already reaching for the jar.

As Big Ed brought them over, Hank suddenly chimed in,

“Ed, I heard you got skunked again the other day.”

Hank grinned, clearly enjoying himself. A few guys nearby paused, waiting for Ed’s response.

Instantly, a few guys glanced over at Ed.

The whole table went quiet, everyone waiting for the punchline.

He gave an awkward grin and scratched his head.

“Nah, I grabbed a bag of corn chips before I left.”

He winked. Ed always had a comeback, even when he struck out on the water.

If you get skunked, at least you’ve got snacks. Doesn’t feel like a total loss.

The shop burst out laughing.

It was the kind of laughter that made you forget your troubles for a minute. Even Ed’s wife cracked a smile from behind the register.

I never doubted Hank about his secret fishing spots. He ran a hardware store, talked a lot, but was generous and well known in the town’s fishing circle.

If you needed a lure at midnight or a spare battery for your headlamp, Hank was your guy. He’d give you the shirt off his back—after he finished bragging about his last catch.

I hadn’t caught anything for days, so hearing about Hank’s big haul made me itch to get out there.

I tried to play it cool, but the truth was, I was desperate for some good news. Maybe tonight would be different.

“You’re the man, Hank. I’ll tag along tonight.”

He grinned, already planning the trip in his head. “You won’t regret it, Marty. Promise.”

A little after four, I set out with Hank.

We met in the parking lot behind his store, loaded up the trucks, and checked our gear twice. The sky was streaked with pink and gold—perfect fishing weather.

I drove behind him, from the county road to a gravel path, going deeper into the backwoods.

The further we went, the narrower the road got. Branches scraped the roof, and the only sounds were our engines and the crunch of gravel.

Eventually, we couldn’t drive anymore. We lugged our gear and hiked for over half an hour until we reached a reservoir.

It was quiet—no other cars, no signs of campers. Just the two of us, the water, and the woods. The air was thick with the smell of mud and pine.

Looking at Hank’s fancy gear, I felt a twinge of envy.

He had the latest reels, high-tech sonar, even a headlamp with more settings than my TV. I joked about it, but secretly, I wished I could afford half his setup.

But fishing isn’t just about the equipment—I told myself that to feel better.

I reminded myself that patience and luck mattered more than gadgets. Still, it stung a little.

Hank really knew his stuff. The place was loaded with fish, and they were all pretty big.

He picked the perfect spot, set up our rigs, and within minutes, we were pulling in bass left and right. For a while, I forgot about everything else.

We fished until three or four in the morning, when the bites finally stopped.

The stars were bright, the air chilly. We shared a thermos of coffee, swapping stories and laughing about old times. It felt good—almost normal.

After packing up, we headed home.

We trudged back to the trucks, loaded up our gear, and hit the road. Hank waved as he turned off toward his house. I watched his taillights disappear, not knowing it’d be the last time I’d see him.

Once I got back, the thrill of a big catch faded, and sleepiness hit me hard.

The adrenaline was gone, replaced by bone-deep exhaustion. I barely made it through the door before I started peeling off my boots.

I washed up quick and crawled into bed.

I didn’t even bother turning off the lights. I just collapsed, letting sleep take me.