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I LEAVE THE notebook in the ashes of the cabin. I wrap it in a T-shirt and a plastic bag I found, tie it with rope, and weigh it down with a rock. Maybe someone will find it. Maybe not. Either way, some record of me will survive.
Longer than I will, probably, but I try not to think like that too much. I try not to think too much at all, but the habit’s ingrained now. It’s like I’m constantly writing in my head. Turning my day into a story, even if I’m not writing it down anymore.
There was frost on the ground when I woke up this morning, silvering the edges of fallen leaves and making the treetops glitter. That marks the end of summer, I suppose, and fall is short here. Winter’s coming fast.
I’ve been thinking about that crate, and what could be in it. I doubt it’s anything that could help me here. It’s probably money or drugs. Worthless, in other words, unless it turns out there’s a thriving cocaine trade among the squirrels. And to find out, I’d have to dig up the hole. Dig up the grave. It’s bad enough going back to the cabin. I can’t do that.
I remember once I overheard Mom talking to Scott about Dad. She said he used to have friends over that she didn’t like. She called them odd. When Scott pressed her for more details, she said something like, “Oh, you know. Live off the land, hate the government types.” She didn’t sound too concerned. She couldn’t have known the extent of it. I still don’t.
I know enough, though. Everything I need to. Dad was involved with bad people. They blackmailed him into hiding money and something else for them, up here where no one would think to look. Only he didn’t have the money for some reason—why? Did he gamble it away? Spend it? Give it to someone? It didn’t matter—every explanation led to the same place. The same patch of forest floor, six feet long and five feet deep.
I doubt I’ll find out all the details, the whole truth, before I die, and my curiosity is pretty blunted these days. The hunger doesn’t leave much room for it.
From the cabin I go down to the water. Fishing again. Not that it’s done me much good so far, but I have to figure it out.
I push out into the lake, picking a new spot this time. Farther east. I throw my line in. I’ve adapted it since the first clumsy attempt. Figured out I shouldn’t be using dead wood for my rod, for one thing. It just snaps. Lost line and a hook like that. After, I cut it from a live branch, so it had more bend. I tried it out on land, pulling and tugging and yanking at the fishing line, and figured out I shouldn’t just have it tied at the tip. Sometimes it slipped off, sometimes the stick broke. Finally I tied it near the base and wrapped it around the whole length of my rod, and tied it at the tip to keep it all in place. I still haven’t seen much luck with it, but I’m hoping that luck will turn.
I get the pole in the water and then that’s it. All I have to do is wait. I trail my fingertips on the surface of the water, watch a duck wing by. I spend a few minutes counting the trees along the shore. Got to do something to make the waiting go by.
The fishing pole lurches.
I grab for it, throwing myself toward it so quickly the whole canoe rocks side to side. It tugs and bounces against my grip. I haul on it. I pull it up, pull it over the boat, extending my arms all the way to get enough length to pull the end up out of the water.
I can see the dark back of the fish in the water. For a moment I doubt I can get it out—I made the line too long—but then with a thrash it flips itself out of the water and right into the bottom of the boat.
I squeal, half in surprise and half in delight.
It’s a slippery, sloshy wrestling match to get the fish pinned, to club it, but then I have a fat fish—trout? Perch? I don’t know the difference, but it looks tasty.
I want to paddle straight back to shore and roast it up, but where there’s one, maybe there will be more. I spear a new worm on the hook and fling it back over.
A white shape a few feet away catches my eye as I settle the rod against the side of the canoe. Two white shapes, small and floating on the water. Too still to be birds. Some kind of trash? They look round and man-made, and anything man-made could be useful.
I paddle over, letting the line trail in the water. Closer up, the two white shapes resolve into small plastic floats. A cord runs between them. I lean out and snag one, drawing it in.
“Huh.”
Six lengths of fishing line dangle from the cord. Two of them are broken off short, but four still have hooks on them—and one, the rotted remnants of a fish. I look at the cord, look back out at the water, and picture the floats spread apart, the six hooks dangling in a row between them.
Was this part of what Dad was doing when he went out to fish, those mornings I didn’t go with him?
If this works, if I can dangle six lines at once without even having to be out on the water to do it... That’s what I need. A passive way to bring in food. Hunting and fishing both take up so much time and energy. I don’t earn back what I put into them. This could be a solution.
I pull the whole contraption into the boat to repair it. Now my hands have something to do. Working with fishing line, especially wet fishing line, is fiddly and frustrating, but after a while I have new lines threaded and all of them baited with bits of rotted fish. I push one float out from the canoe, letting it drift until the line is stretched to its limit, and set the other float into the water.
In the edge of my vision, the fishing rod dips.
I grin. Today is going to be a good day.
•••
TWO FISH. TWOfish, and the promise of more tomorrow if things work out. I get back to land, and I feel like I’m soaring. Still no sign of Bo, but I can’t blame him for ditching me. It’s not like I’ve been able to keep him fed.
I gut the fish by the shore. I’m sloppy, but I watched Dad do it and can see where I went wrong—I’ll be able to do it better next time.
I save the guts for Bo and wash the blood off my hands. Then I make my way back to the rock. The trip feels quicker than it ever has, and the whole way I’m imagining what it’ll taste like when I put that first piece of flaky fish on my tongue. I’d be skipping if I weren’t limping, and it’s good to remember what a real smile feels like, stretching my cheeks.
I get my fire going and set up my “stove.” It’s not much—really just rocks I set around the fire, to prop up my pan. I found the pan in the cabin when I finally went to sort through the remains. Cast iron, so it didn’t burn, though it’s taken ages to get the ash and soot off it.
