I’m five years old, and I bring home a goldfish in a plastic bag of water. When I show it to my father and ask where I can put it, he suggests an empty aquarium that’s long been sitting in the basement. I go down to the dark basement and release the fish into the tank. But the tank seems too small, and I’m unsatisfied. Even though I wanted to keep the fish, I realize it would be happier in the big pond beyond the forest. So, I scoop it up with my bare hands, and embark on the path to the pond. On the way I accidentally drop the fish, and it flops around in the mud, gasping for air. After a moment of panic, I rescue it and resume the walk to the pond. When I arrive, I release the fish. Though it struggles at first, I’m relieved and heartened when it soon rights itself and swims away.