Sometimes we would speak to one another. As he cast his line into the dark water beneath the trees, I would ask him about the river. “Why aren’t there any redfins to catch?” He’d stare at the line like it had done something wrong, and wait patiently for the red and white float to drift closer to the far rocks. “Because the pollutants upriver killed them off. Or drove them away. Just carp and eels are left.” “Will they come back? The redfin, I mean. Will they come back?” He stared at the float, assessed its movement, shook his head.