“Any biters?” A voice, smooth but rumbling like stones rolling together, called out.

Rudy was ever-fixed on the icy waters, tip of his long-long pole affixed to one of the stations along the dock. He only allowed for a glance at the man; pushing fifty, non-white and intensely well-manicured. He threw him a wave, hoping that would be the end of it.

Boots approached.

“That good, huh?” The fellow came to rest against the railing one notch down from Rudy’s pole, peripherally visible even without turning.

“Bad day for it. Too choppy. Fish can’t make heads or tails of my lure from anything.”

“Too right,” the man said peering over the pier. “But then, if I can ask, why would a man like you— a career fisherman by the looks of him— be out here on such a miserable fishing day?”

Rudy paused. His sullen expression had yet to change.

“Gotta try.”

The man now fully faced him. His face-widening smiling was readable without looking. Something bothersome about it.

“And try we might, isn’t that right?” Spoken through the smile, the words sounded strained, desperate despite friendliness.

“What did you say your name was?” Rudy said.

“I didn’t.”

Rudy huffed a bit. No focus to be found fishing, no peace to be found from this strange stranger. He turned… to see no one.

The pier, long enough to land a beachcraft on, was empty but for him and his pole. He felt a cold deeper than the arctic air rip through to his deeper flesh.

Just then, with enough for to throw him into a jump, something far below on the pole bit.