The shack smelled of damp wood and smoke from last night's fire, but outside the air was clean. The river gleamed silver in the morning light, winding lazily through the wild grass and whispering reeds. Jelric trailed behind his father, carrying a small wooden box tucked under his arm. His father walked ahead with the fishing rods balanced across his shoulder, a shovel in one hand.
They reached the soft soil near the riverbank and his father crouched, digging shallow cuts into the earth with the shovel. Soon enough, pale worms squirmed out of the dirt. Jelric grimaced, crouched, and scooped a few into a tin box. The worms writhed, knotting together in a slick ball.
"Don't look like that," his father muttered. "Worms are worth more than coin out here."
"Sure," Jelric said, wrinkling his nose, "if your coin wriggles."