“Why not?”

   Disappointing, yes. But I should have known that when you ask a simple question, you get a simple answer. 

   He is sitting with me, on the edge of the river. Watching the water go by. Letting it rush past his feet as they dangle on the surface. It is only now that I notice he did not bring shoes.

   “I just meant… Why this? Why me?”

   He nods solemnly. “Why do you think?”

   I don’t have an answer to that. I decide that it is better to keep silent for a bit. 

   “We all want to ask that,” he says. “But I cannot answer. You know the answer, or else you would not have asked me.”

   He says all this without looking at me. Still staring into the distance. I do not see what he is looking at. I think to turn my head in the direction he is looking in, but he moves before I can. He is standing up now, looking around. I watch as he disappears into the underbrush.

   He emerges soon after, holding a long stick. “This will do,” he says to himself. His next words are directed towards me. “Do you happen to have some thread?”

   I open my mouth to say no, but I notice his eyes drift to my shirt pocket. I reach into it, and discover a small red string. His face lights up. “Wonderful!” he says. 

   He sits down next to me and begins to drag his wrinkled fingers through the mud. “Watch,” he tells me. “Watch for them.”

   His fingers soon surface, holding a small black object. A leech. No… a pen?

   His hands turn into a blur, a tornado around these found objects. He has fashioned a fishing rod. 

   “I left mine at home,” he explains. Does he even have a home? Does he exist outside of this moment?

  “Great day for fishing.” 

   I nod.

   Silence.

   The rod jerks, bringing us back to attention. He chuckles. “She’s a real grabber!”

   He tugs the makeshift fishing rod from the water. I look on in amazement as a book emerges through the surface. It’s soaked. As he reels it in with his hands, I notice that it is empty. 

   He senses my disbelief, and  attempts to explain. “It’s all about the bait. You give them something they can use. If you want a fish, you get a worm. If you want a boot, you get some laces. And if you want a journal, you use a pen.”

   He opens the book back up, but finds little success when he realizes how waterlogged it is. He takes a deep breath in.

   A gust of wind overtakes us. The book is dry in a second.

   “You got any more questions?”

   I look at him. What does he think?

   He hands me the journal. “Write ‘em down.”

   I try to tell him that no, I can speak. But I cannot. I open my mouth, and nothing comes out.

   He grimaces. “You were silent for too long. Around here, that doesn’t work. You stop speaking, you can’t anymore. But you’ll get your voice back soon.” He gives me the pen.

   I scribble down my biggest questions and give him back the journal. He scans the pages and sighs.

   “I don’t have your answers.” 

   I cannot protest. I can only accept this. 

   He rips the page out and hands it to me. “You tell me what you think.”

   With that, he is gone. As fast as he came. Disappearing back into the woods. Only this time, he will not come back. 

   It will be about two hours before I get my voice back. Until then, I can think about my questions. I don’t have any answers, but I have thoughts. And more questions.

   Maybe I can ask him next weekend.