When the River Whispers at Midnight

3:17AM. My thermos of bitter coffee vibrated on the truck's dashboard as we bounced down the levee road. The Mississippi stretched before us like liquid obsidian, its surface broken only by the occasional glow stick bobbing on a trotline. 'Should've brought the heavy tackle,' muttered Jake, eyeing the swollen current. We both knew why we came after the summer storm - big flatheads hunt in the chaos.

My first cast with chicken liver sailed into the darkness. The rod tip danced with the current's pulse, not the sharp tugs we craved. By sunrise, our cooler held nothing but melted ice. Then it happened - a subtle twitch in my line that didn't match the river's rhythm. Heart hammering, I waited through three slow breaths before setting the hook.

The fight left blisters through my gloves. Twenty minutes later, we stared at a whiskered beast longer than my arm. Its tail slapped the measuring board as I fumbled with the lip gripper. The release sent concentric rings across the gold-tinted water. Jake's laughter echoed off the bluffs. 'Next time,' I whispered to the river, 'I'll bring a bigger ruler.'