She flipped a few more.

  “Don’t offer advice unless asked.” Mary chuckled. “Seems like I’m breaking that rule right now, aren’t I?”

  “No. You’re being kind.”

  Mary sniffled, nodded, wiped away a quick tear, and turned to another page, one she’d dog-eared.

  “We can solve everything with kindness,” she read. “Even tragedy. Once we accept that everything happens for a reason, kindness is the only way to get through it.”

  Leo found it odd that he was just thinking that kindness can’t solve everything, but the quote showed that it did.

  He also found it odd that this stranger found him at this precise moment, to show kindness, and to tell him that everything happens for a reason.

  That hit Leo in a strong way.

  “You told me there’s something you have to do,” Mary said.

  Leo nodded.

  “Do you think, after you do what you need to do, you’ll still want it all to end?”

  Leo rubbed his wrist. “I’m not sure. But…”

  “But?”

  “If everything happens for a reason, if I have some destiny I’m supposed to fulfill, then maybe we were both meant to be here right now. And maybe what your ex-husband wrote about forgiveness is what both of us need to hear.”

  Mary focused on folding up her hamburger wrapper.

  “Did he sign your book?” Leo asked.

  “He did.”

  “Did he inscribe anything?”

  “He wrote, ‘You’ll Always Be The One’.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “He wrote that in our daughter’s book, too. He wrote that in everyone’s book.”

  “That doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

  Mary sniffled again, then smiled.

  “I need to go meet Wilbur and Jack for drinks, don’t I?”

  “You know what you have to do, Mary.”

  She reached for Leo’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Thanks, Leo.”

  “Thank you, Mary.”

  They finished eating, and Mary asked Leo if he needed a ride anywhere.

  “I appreciate the offer, but I’d rather walk. I’ve got a new pair of boots and I’d like to break them in.”

  “Do me a favor. Promise me you won’t hurt yourself.”

  “I promise.”

  Leo was sincere in that reply.

  I won’t hurt myself.

  But I feel, deep down, that something is waiting to hurt me.

  Something very, very bad.

  Mary stood, nodded, placed a twenty-dollar bill on the table, and walked out of the restaurant.

  A fat, black horsefly buzzed past, quick and darting, and without thinking Leo held open his hand. The fly immediately landed on his palm—

  —and bit, causing a small shock of pain.

  Leo’s hand closed like a trap, crushing the fly. When he opened his fingers, the insect had been smashed, its blood mingling with the blood it had drawn.

  Leo felt the Tug ripple through his body, beckoning him to head north.

  He got up, took Mary’s money, and headed north.

  DUNCAN

  BIG LAKE NIBOOWIN, FIFTEEN YEARS AGO…

  “Woof and I are going fishing,” Duncan declared, his preteen mind judging the overcast conditions to be perfectly suited for big bass.

  His mother looked up from her newspaper and raised an eyebrow. “Can you handle the boat yourself?”

  “Of course I can, Mom. Tell her, Josh.”

  When Duncan’s mom, Fran Stauffer, married Josh VanCamp, Josh legally adopted Duncan. Duncan took his last name, but he hadn’t begun calling him Dad yet.

  Josh forked the last pancake from the platter onto his syrup-soaked plate. “He can handle it. If anything goes wrong, Woof will save him. Right, Woof?”

  Woof, the beagle who was so fat he was often mistaken for a basset hound, said, “Woof!”

  The dog was less interested in being part of the conversation and more interested in the half a strip of bacon Duncan hadn’t eaten yet.

  Mom frowned. “Woof is too fat to swim. He sinks like a dog-shaped rock.”

  “Woof!”

  “We’ll be fine, Mom.”

  Duncan set his plate on the floor, letting the hound lick it clean, and then went to the hat rack to grab his Bass Pro Shops cap.

  “Wear your life jacket,” Mom told him.

  “It’s hard to fish wearing a life jacket,” Duncan complained.

  “It’s harder to fish when you’re drowned,” his mother replied. “And stay in line of sight.”

  “I’ve got the walkie-talkie.”

  “There are dead spots on the lake,” Mom said.

  “I’ve got a cell phone, too.”

  “Dead spots,” Mom repeated.

  “Josh?” Duncan looked to the stepfather for help.

  “There are dead spots,” Josh said. “And stay out of the marsh. If there’s a problem with the boat, I can come and get you with the pontoon. But that beast would have a tough time making it through the marsh.”

  “Got it.”

  “Got your EDC?”

  Duncan patted both pockets of his jeans shorts, confirming his everyday carry was on him. Josh, a firefighter, taught him that a man should always have a flashlight and a knife, and had gifted him with both on his last birthday. The flashlight was a 3.6V rechargeable, waterproof Olight, and the knife a Victorinox Swiss Army Cyber Tool, which had several blades, a screwdriver and bit set, and various other stainless-steel tools.

  Duncan called Woof, and the pair walked out of the rental house and into the yard. Mathison, the capuchin monkey who lived with him (he was really smart so he wasn’t so much a pet as a brother), squeaked a greeting at boy and dog as they walked under the tree he was in. When they arrived at their vacation rental, Mathison has discovered a nest of squirrels and had made friends, and they spent most of the day chasing each other through the canopy.

  “Want to go fishing, Mathison?”

  Mathison gave them a squawk that signaled no. He then issued a stern bark that was an obvious warning to be careful.

  Seriously? Doesn’t anyone in this family trust me?

  Duncan and Woof went to the pier and walked down the short dock, past the pontoon they’d rented in town for the whole family to use, up to the moored fourteen-foot aluminum rowboat that came with the cabin rental. Duncan and Josh had spent an hour on the first day of vacation learning the intricacies of the 9.9 HP Johnson outboard motor, in preparation for Duncan taking it out on his own. The engine had a hard pull start and a rough idle, but seemed reliable enough, and Duncan had proven himself yesterday, fishing alone for almost ninety minutes.

  One small bass caught, which brought my total to six for the week.

  If I get lucky, I could double that right now.

  Duncan told Woof to stay, then he carefully climbed into the wobbly boat at the stern, keeping his balance and placing his knee on the seat float and his free foot on the V-shaped bottom of the boat. He pulled out the engine choke knob, gave the gas bulb a firm squeeze to make sure it was full, and then gave the starter cord a tug.

  The engine sputtered, but didn’t start.

  He did it again.

  Same result.

  C’mon. Josh is probably watching.

  I can do this.

  He pulled once more, hard as he could—

  —and the engine caught and roared to life.

  Duncan slowly pushed the choke back in and turned the tiller grip to rev it, making sure it was getting gas while warming up.

  Then he unhooked the stern line from the dock, helped Woof into the boat, unhooked the bow line, put on a life jacket, eased back on the gas and switched from neutral into forward, and off they went.

  There weren’t many things for an eleven year old that offered the sense of freedom, power, and satisfaction as piloting your own boat. Duncan got to decide the destination and the speed. Duncan chose the length of the trip, and how long to stay in each fishing spot. Duncan got to taste what it felt like, for a brief amount of time, to be an adult, and he took the responsibility seriously.

  I can do this. I’m not a little kid anymore.

  Now I just need to catch some fish.

  He headed out to a spot where the weeds poked up through the water, gauged which direction the waves would take his boat, and killed the engine. Duncan moved the net resting on the seats to the side, and picked up his Shimano baitcast pole and reel outfit. It already had a spinner bait clipped to the steel leader.

  This should be weedless enough.

  He cast.

  He retrieved.

  He felt good.

  Like an adult.

  After twelve casts and no hits, coupled with dying wind so there wasn’t a drift to carry the boat to a new area, Duncan posed a question to Woof.

  “Think we should move, boy?”

  Woof went, “Woof!” which was not a surprise. He was at the bottom of the boat on his side, his tail thumping against the bench seat as he wagged it. Sometimes Woof got up on the seat and looked out at the water and barked at various things. But mostly the lazy dog napped, sometimes on his belly, sometimes on his side, sometimes on his back with all four paws in the air.

  After answering Duncan he immediately put his head down and began to snore.

  Duncan started the boat in a single pull, smiled smugly, and headed north up the lake, to another spot, further from the rental house but still in a direct line of sight.

  Twelve more casts in all directions.

  Twelve more retrieves without a bite.

  He stared up into the overcast clouds, contemplating where to go next. Catching fish was a tricky relationship between right time and right place. Duncan and Josh had fished enough parts of the lake that they knew the weed beds, knew the best spots for bass, and knew the best times of day; early morning around sunrise, an hour before and after sunset, and overcast with a slight wind.

  It was around noon, so not a good time. No waves at all, so the boat wasn’t moving on its own.

  But a sun obscured by clouds meant the fish would be more active.

  There should be something biting.

  Duncan moved fifty meters north, made twelve more casts—

  —and got nothing.

  He worked the area once more, casting in all directions around the boat, working it like he was at the center of an analog clock face.

  Fish are always moving. Maybe something just swam up.

  Twelve more casts.

  Not. A. Single. Bite.

  Forty-eight casts. I should have had a nibble by now. Or even a follow.

  “Woof!”

  Duncan glanced at his dog, and saw Woof with his paws on the gunwale, staring across the vast expanse of water…

  At the marsh.

  “We’re not supposed to go into the marsh,” Duncan said, partly to Woof but mostly to himself.

  But there’s nothing wrong with fishing next to it.

  Right?

  Duncan yanked the starter cord. The boat sputtered, but didn’t turn over.

  He made sure it was in neutral and tried again.

  No start.

  He checked the fuel line, gave the gas bulb a squeeze, and tugged it again.

  Sputter, stop.

  Do I need to call Josh for help?

  No. I can do this.

  Duncan took off his life jacket, which was restricting his movement, and set it on the bottom of the boat. Then he pulled again, both hands on the grip, putting his shoulders and back into it.

  The motor started, and Duncan headed for the marsh. He stopped two meters away from the reeds, changed his lure to a red head/white body Arbogast Jitterbug, aimed his cast for the reed line, and just when the bait hit the water a gigantic bass hit from underneath, its whole body breaching the surface.

  A six pounder! Maybe bigger!

  Duncan set the hook while the fish was still jumping, giving the pole a firm yank, feeling the weight bend the rod tip and—

  —gaping wide-eyed as the lure came flying free, arcing through the air, plopping into the water near the boat.

  The bass side-flopped, its big tail swished, and it darted straight into the marsh, its dorsal fin making a wiggly line as it blended into the reeds.

  Woof began to bark, and Duncan sat there, shocked and trembling with excitement.

  That was the biggest fish I’ve ever seen.

  What a pure rush.

  And I almost had it.

  He did what everyone did after losing a trophy fish, staring at the spot where it got away, thinking about what could have been.

  Then Duncan snapped out of his reverie and cast again. And again. And again and again and again, working the reed line, working the surface lure, working his butt off.

  The big bass didn’t strike again.

  Because it went into the marsh.

  I bet it found a new hiding spot, and is just sitting there. Waiting for its next meal.

  Duncan eyed the off-limits area. According to Josh, the water was less than two feet deep, full of weeds, dead trees, and sunken logs, with a thick muck bottom. The motor propeller and intake would likely get clogged, causing a stall, and all of the living and dead plants would make rowing difficult. Swimming was probably impossible. So was wading.

  But does that really make sense?

  Boats float. And if the engine stalled, I could row. Or, worst case, I’m comfortable in the water. It’s just a lake. How can swimming be impossible?

  “I should go in,” Duncan said. “Just a little ways.”

  Woof, uncharacteristically, didn’t reply.

  Duncan started up the motor, which caught on the first pull, which he took to be a good sign. Searching for an entry point, he buried the growing disappointment that he couldn’t find one.

  The weeds are so thick. Reeds and cattails and dead trees and—

  An opening!

  A small one, barely the width of the boat. But it’s a path through all the plants.

  Duncan headed for it and entered the reeds slowly, and the plant life immediately surrounded the boat, closing in and swallowing it up, rubbing against the aluminum hull and giving off an echoey drumming/scraping sound that made Duncan uneasy.

  How can I even throw a lure in this slop?

  Bad idea. I need to turn around and—

  The engine sputtered, sputtered, sputtered… and then stopped.

  Duncan put it in neutral and tugged the cord.

  And tugged.

  And tugged.

  And tugged and tugged and tugged until his shoulders burned and his arms felt ready to fall off.

  The motor refused to start.

  He unlocked the tilt and pulled the lower end up out of the water, seeing a propeller caked with muck and weeds, the water intake slots fully clogged.

  Exactly what Josh said would happen.

  He picked off the slop, cleared the grilles, eased the motor back into the water, and gave the cord another heroic pull.

  This time the motor did start, and immediately a shrill whistle blared from under the cowl.

  This irritated Woof, who began to howl in protest.

  Engine alarm. It’s overheating.

  If it runs while overheating, it could seize the motor.

  That’s unfixable. And even a cheap, old outboard cost several hundred bucks.

  Duncan hit the stop button. Woof also stopped howling, and cocked his head at Duncan.

  “Okay. I row out.”

  He picked up a wooden oar resting on the slat seats, which was heavier than he anticipated, and as he tried to get the metal pivot into the oarlock it slipped from his hands and fell into the water, slowly gliding away from the boat.

  Duncan reached over the edge, stretching for the oar before it floated away, and then the world’s fattest beagle got up on the gunwale to see what was happening and that was enough to tip both Duncan, and Woof, overboard.

  Duncan went into the water head-first, immediately getting a mouthful of filthy water, and came up, choking, as his feet sank into the muck.

  Woof didn’t come up.

  Duncan couldn’t see anything in the blackness he’d stirred up, and he knew Woof was too fat to swim, so he held his breath and ducked down into the darkness and tried to sweep his hands around to find his dog.

  Please, oh please, oh please oh please oh—

  Duncan’s hand brushed something solid, and he leaned into it, pulling it close to him, taking it to the surface, and the boy and his dog spent a moment gasping for air.

  Woof didn’t even try to doggy paddle. He clung to Duncan with all four paws, holding on for his life.

  Duncan wrapped his arms around the dog, trying to maintain his balance with his feet stuck almost up to his knees.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he repeated over and over.

  In the meantime, the boat floated silently away, getting caught in the reeds two meters from Duncan’s position.

  It might as well have been two kilometers away. Because Duncan couldn’t get his feet free.

  Exactly what Josh said would happen.

  Josh was right about everything.

  Duncan let the scenario play out in his head.

  I can’t swim because I’m holding Woof.

  Even if I drop the dog, I don’t think I can get my feet out of the muck.

  The boat is too far away. It has the walkie-talkie.

  But I have my phone!

  Duncan used one hand to carefully pull his cell out of his pocket, hoping against hope that it still worked even though it had been in the water.

  His phone did not work.

  He looked around, but all he could see were reeds.

  I’m in trouble.

  I’m in big, big trouble.

  Duncan clutched his trembling dog, and began to cry.

  JAKE

  BACK IN THE PRESENT…

  My body is a vessel.

  A vessel for Him.

  He will spread His seed throughout this lake.

  And He shall grow inside me and be born again.

  Jake sat in the muck among the reeds on the north side of Big Lake Niboowin. Occasionally, something would wiggle out of one of his orifices and swim into the water.

  Before Jake had been infused with His genetic material, he’d been a scientist. He’d always wondered, in his self-absorbed, borderline-obsessive way, how many orifices the human body had.