Oliver Miles left his phone on his desk and snagged the fly rod from the corner of his cubicle.

Standing on the loading dock, he loosened his tie and surveyed the cottonwoods glimmering in the midday sun, casting shadows exactly where he wanted them.

Some days, trains idled on the tracks behind by the building. Today it was quiet. Oliver hopped up the rock bank to the empty tracks and strolled east over the rail ties until he reached the trestle at the creek.

He peeled off the tracks, slid down the loose dirt and planted his feet on the sand bar. Resting his rod on a block of concrete, he knelt down, slipped off his loafers and socks, and rolled his pants to his knees.

“Yes,” Oliver whispered, closing his eyes as he stepped into the cool water. He unhooked the fly and rolled it into the current where it dipped and bobbed on the surface through the riffles and beneath the shade of the trestle.

After a minute he pulled the line and recast, threading the fly through the low willows on the far bank. The fly ran into the eddy and the brook trout hit.

Oliver set the hook fast, but took his time bringing the fish in, letting it put up an honest fight. When the fish lay on the sandbar, he admired its sunburst colors. An early red dawn breaking into a night full of stars, he liked to think.

He slid the fly out of the trout’s mouth, loosened his grip, and the fish shot through the water back to safety.

Oliver rinsed his hands and washed the sand off his feet. He slipped into his socks, his loafers, and nodded at the fishing hole before returning to the tracks.

Back inside the fluorescent office, Oliver stashed his rod in the corner of his cubicle, and checked his phone for what he might have missed.