1The fog had not lifted by the time Hana and her grandfather reached the end of the pier. It hung over the harbor like a gray wool blanket, so thick that the lighthouse on the point was only a pale smudge, blinking every few seconds as if it were trying to stay awake.
2Hana set down the bucket of bait and blew on her fingers. It was the last week of October, and the wooden planks were slick with frost. Somewhere below, the water slapped and sloshed against the pilings, patient and unseen.
3"Fish don't care about the weather," her grandfather said, threading line through his reel with hands that had done the same job for sixty years. "They care about whether you show up."
4Hana did not answer. She had wanted to stay in bed, and she still half-wished she had. But she watched him cast, the line arcing out and vanishing into the whiteness, and she picked up her own rod.
5For a long time nothing happened. Gulls complained somewhere overhead. A bell buoy clanged once, then again, slow and lonely. The cold crept through Hana's mittens and settled in her knuckles.
6Then, just as the sun began to burn a silver hole through the fog, her line jerked so hard that she nearly dropped the rod. She reeled with all her strength, her arms aching, until a flash of green and silver broke the surface.
7Her grandfather did not shout or clap. He simply nodded, the way he did when the tide came in on time, and reached for the net. Hana grinned so widely that her cheeks hurt, and for the first time all morning, she did not notice the cold.