Kenny moved back to Huntsville with no announcement and no plan beyond staying. He bought a small cabin not far from Lake Livingston— nothing fancy, just enough space to be his. The Trinity River ran nearby, feeding the lake in a way that felt familiar, like a vein he’d known was there long before he could name it. For the first time, the water wasn’t something he imagined. It was something he could reach.
His boat was a used jon boat he paid five hundred dollars for. It was loud, narrow, and honest. On the lake, it put him in a different category than the fiberglass boats with polished decks and wrapped trailers. He noticed the looks at the ramp. The quiet sorting. He didn’t resent it, but he felt it. Old habits lingered longer than they should.
Kenny worked nights as a security guard. The job was simple, and the hours left his days open. He got written up more than once for watching the Fishing Channel on duty, the glow of the screen lighting up empty rooms while the rest of the building slept. He didn’t argue. He just nodded and kept doing it. Some things were worth the trouble.
The river taught him respect quickly. Water levels changed without warning— too low in droughts, dangerous after heavy rain. Once, navigating a flooded backwater, he ran the boat onto a submerged treetop. It stuck fast, pivoting uselessly no matter how he tried to free it. The water was dark and deep. Then he saw movement at his left— huge, deliberate. A twenty-foot alligator surfaced and thrashed, claiming space that wasn’t negotiable. Kenny scrambled to the stern, pulled the cord again and again until the motor finally caught. He didn’t look back as he eased free.
Another time, a water moccasin struck his hand while he was reaching for a line. The bite didn’t kill him, but it left damage. Doctors estimated he lost half the strength in that hand. Fishing became harder. Pain became part of the process. Kenny adjusted without complaint. He always had.
He fished whenever he could— early mornings, late afternoons, quiet stretches when the lake emptied out. He caught good bass. Some impressive ones. But not the one. The big one stayed out of reach, and Kenny felt that old familiar distance again— not between himself and the water, but between effort and recognition.
Still, he kept going. Not out of stubbornness, but out of alignment. The river, the lake, the boat, the injuries— all of it felt like the correct shape of his life. He wasn’t chasing comfort anymore. He was pursuing something precise, even if he couldn’t fully name it yet.