James was becoming very irritated. Ten worms and no fish had been caught. Cast, reel, no fish. Cast, reel, no fish. He slammed the fishing pole on the ground and stomped about the campsite. He pulled his knife from his waistband and cut off the line stuck in the brush. The day was coming to an end and the mosquitoes were starting to bite, but James was determined to catch at least one fish. He put a worm back on the hook, and casted the line as the bobber hit the water with a subtle “plunk.” He had been out here for hours, and the only thing he had caught was a sunburn. James loved fishing, no matter how irritated he got. It reminded him of long summers with his grandfather, gone now for almost a year. James would spend countless summers fishing off the dock with his grandpa Ed, something in which he missed more than anything.  Fishing was his safe place away from the rest of the world. He felt a tug at the line, and with eager hopefulness, began reeling it in. His joy quickly faded when he looked at the end of the broken line. He could now hear the frogs croaking, signifying the brink of night. James chucked the empty worm box in the lake and wiped his hands on his pants thoroughly. He grabbed his flashlight from his pocket and turned towards the campsite, his pole and tackle box in hand.