My friends brought me in to a stream that was good for native brook trout. “Keep this place quiet,” they said. We hiked a trail through the woods. Pines trees rose like toothpicks from the ground. Owl country. The west wind shook the trees. At the stream, cold and clear running water. These fish are so beautiful you feel an odd honor just to catch one, a reverence for the stream and the fish. Native Rhode Island brook trout, they’ve been here since the ice age. We caught them on worms and tiny hooks, drift fishing the bank. Five or six fish, all released. I drove home, taking the country roads through the woods and turf fields. Then I came to a section of road where the night before a 17-year-old girl was killed in a car crash. I didn’t know her, a local high school student, but the road held an energy, eerie, expansive, the energy of a death. The news stations loved showing the photo of the car, a total wreck, doors ripped off, and you could see where her head hit the passenger windshield. I drove passed the high school where she attended, the flag was at half mast, the school completely empty. My eyes welled up as I drove on, the wind high in the trees, the cold water running strong in the stream.