If you’ve ever been religious, you’ve likely had that moment of doubt. A moment, looking at pain or suffering or very bad art, when you wonder if there could possibly be a god. If so, how could I be eating this egg salad sandwich? In a similar way, I now doubt the existence of fish.

I see the grocery store’s heaped ice hills, holding the fresh catch aloft, like an offering to the spit shield. I watch a guy from Georgia on YouTube as he pulls what seems to be a five, ten, or twenty pound bass out of some sweltering lake. “Nice,” he says.

I have even — or at least, I have allowed myself to be deceived into thinking that I have — caught fish.

I’m standing in the rain, on a small bridge in Greenbelt, MD, birthplace of the lava lamp. There’s a glare on the water when the clouds clear, and when they crowd out the sky, rain falls all over my unjacketed back. I am a poor planner, if nothing else.

I’ve been told that there are fish directly below me. Oh, I can’t see them due to the convenient glare and rain, but they’re down there. S is wearing polarized lenses and can allegedly see past the surface to the panfish just below.

My lure traces line after line through the stream, covering the bottom like frog-shaped sonar. I can feel each bump in the ground until a photorealistic 3D map of the stream is imprinted in my mind. Even now, I fall asleep dreaming of its pebbles and empty plastic bottles and lack of fish.

“It’s right there,” S says. “No, too far. You just went by it.”

The fish has just had the equivalent of fish Thanksgiving, it seems. I could not eat another bite. It is stuffed beyond belief and would like to go watch football while its uncle falls asleep on the couch with his pants unbuttoned.

The rain returns and we duck under the makeshift tent. A blue tarp strung up over a wooden bench and tied down with self-tightening knots — another alleged product of questionable reality. When we first set our dry little camp up, I spent five minutes standing in the deluge, staring at the knot to understand how it could possibly work — magic, seems to be the answer. I also haven’t ruled out glue or thumbtacks.

The rain let’s up and we rush back out. My shoes are full of holes and the muck and wet seep up through them into my thin socks. S and A have rainjackets and my son has a covered stroller. The stroller is too small for me so I stand alone — damp.

As I untangle my line from another branch, I think back to the Georgia man. He has the gruff competence of someone who’s spent years on and around the water. I fumble with lures and live fish like a seafood-themed clown. That’s not a clownfish joke. Maybe it is.

When he pulls a fish out of the water with his bare hands, all I can think is, “Aghhhghh!”

The rain dies down. Walkers come out of the woods with their children and their good jogging form. Did that woman just run on her toes? The heel is clearly where the best running happens and I feel sorry for her.

Two men wander by and stare out at the water near our shelter for a few minutes. Maybe they’re murders or thieves, just waiting for us to let our guard down. I punch a tree to display my prowess and overall hatred of invasive species. They leave, terrified and talking in low tones about their research at NASA. Good riddance.

I help S free his line from under a rock. While I wait to hand his fishing rod over to him, a tree limb falls and breaks over my head. Revenge for the early beating, I’m sure. I don’t die in the accident, but maybe I have a concussion. I do not have a concussion. Wait. Do concussions feel like being embarrassed and angry at trees?

The baby throws rocks into the water, oblivious to my suffering. It’s okay, I only keep you alive. Why would you care that I’m furious at the non-existent fish? The rocks have scared away the fish, I am sure. It’s no longer my fault that I haven’t caught the fake fish.

The bachelorette party we’re avoiding ends. Can we go pick the girls up? Is the baby sleepy? Did we catch anything?