The warden squinted at the lines, suspicious but curious. “Magnets?” he repeated, leaning closer. Sure enough, instead of hooks, each pole ended in a shiny magnet clinking softly against bits of metal from the riverbed. Bottle caps, nails, a rusted lure or two—trash, not trout. The first blonde shrugged with a disarming smile. “See? We’re cleaning, not fishing.”
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