Good. The attachment held firm.

  It works.

  I lost maybe a half inch of length, but it works.

  I’m pretty lucky, all things considered.

  Then he noticed his left wrist, and his right ankle, began to tingle and burn.

  One crisis at a time. I’ll deal with that when I need to.

  He tapped the cheese grater on the asphalt, shaking out all the little fleshy and boney bits. Then Leo hung the handle on his trench coat belt and once again obeyed the Tug, letting himself be drawn in a northwestern path.

  Whatever I’m heading for, it can’t be worse than what I’ve just gone through.

  If I can handle that, I can handle anything.

  It was an optimistic thought.

  It was also completely wrong.

  DUNCAN

  SAME TIME…

  On his hands and knees, the blood returning to his head, Duncan regained his focus and got his erratic heartbeat and shallow breathing under control.

  That’s it. Fishing is over.

  “You okay, bro?” Chuck patted his back.

  “We’re going in.”

  After dragging the back of his hand across his cheek to wipe away the streak of leech blood—or maybe it was Stu blood—Duncan got to his feet and took his seat behind the steering wheel.

  “Seriously?” Stu said. “I got rid of it. Didn’t mean to make you freak out, man. Let’s fish.”

  “We’re done. I’m the captain. Captain’s rules.”

  “C’mon, Duncan.” Chuck took off his ball cap and rubbed his hand through his hair. “We should at least take a few more casts. This spot looks perfect. Stu was acting like an idiot. Stu, apologize.”

  Stu shrugged. “Sorry. I’m interested in that sort of stuff. Life cycles of bugs are my thing. I didn’t know it would be that gross for you.”

  Duncan considered staying, then reconsidered his consideration.

  I can get over the dead fish. And the leeches. And the maggots. And the blood.

  But there’s still the hot sun. The lack of wind. The air quality. The mounting thirst. The utter failure at not even getting a single bite.

  And the marsh. The marsh was freaking cursed. I never should have come back to this part of the lake.

  I’m done. We’re done.

  He tried to hide his frustration by being positive. “Let’s go in, grab some food. And beer.”

  “Beer sounds good,” Chuck agreed.

  “I’ve beaten my hangover just enough to be up for a beer,” Stu agreed. “We still climbing up the fire tower?”

  “I’m up for that,” Chuck said.

  Duncan hid his sense of relief. “All in. A brew with a view. Let’s do it.”

  He turned the ignition key.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  The motor didn’t start.

  He made sure the boat was in neutral, pushed in the key to activate the choke, and tried again.

  Nope.

  Again.

  No dice.

  Once more, Duncan turning the key hard, silently willing the Mechanical Gods to show mercy.

  The motor sputtered—

  —caught—

  —and died.

  The Mechanical Gods are assholes.

  A large, black fly buzzed angrily past Duncan’s ear, and he swatted at it with his palm, his irritation level rising.

  There are plenty of reasons why a motor wouldn’t start. I need to go down the checklist.

  He stood up and went to work.

  Safety lanyard in place; it hadn’t tripped the kill switch.

  Wires to the control box looked good.

  Battery cables tight, no corrosion.

  Gas in the tank. Bulb firm. Cap vented.

  Hoses good, no leaks, firmly attached at the tank and the motor.

  He trimmed up, and the lower end of the Mercury rose out of the water, proving the battery worked and was fully charged.

  Some weeds tangling the propeller, but not enough to seize it.

  Intake ports appear clear.

  Duncan went into a lure box and took out a ½” crescent wrench. Then he removed the motor cowl, set it aside, and carefully took off the four bolts holding the thermostat housing.

  And there’s the problem.

  “Thermostat is totally blocked.” Duncan chuckled in relief as he dug the mud and weeds off of the spring. He also checked the exit tube, leading to the telltale, aka the pee hole. Outboard motors drew in lake water with an impeller to cool the engine, then shot a stream of hot water out the back, hence the rude nickname. The pee hole was clogged with muck, which Duncan unclogged using a piece of weed wacker plastic wire that he kept on board for that purpose.

  Then he put the cleaned thermostat in place, bolted the housing back on, and tilted the lower end back into the water.

  Fingers crossed…

  Duncan went back to the start key, pressed it in, and turned—

  —and the motor kicked on—

  —and died again.

  He cranked it five more times, but it didn’t catch.

  If I keep trying to start without it starting I’ll drain the battery.

  So what the hell can be wrong?

  “All engines need three things,” Chuck said. “Fuel, air, and fire.”

  “Could it be the smoggy air?” Stu asked.

  Chuck shook his head. “If we can breathe, the motor can breathe.”

  “Spark plugs?” Duncan asked. “Flooded?”

  “Worth checking. If they’re wet or gunked up they won’t spark. They need to keep lighting to combust the fuel. No fire, no combustion.”

  It was a good suggestion. Duncan popped off the cowl again and followed the black wires to locate the plugs. He tugged off the rubber-shrouded wire clips and peered in the mounts on the cylinder head. They were deep-seated, like in a car engine. He tried turning one with his fingers.

  Too tight. And I don’t have a spark plug socket on board.

  “Hand me the fishing pliers,” he told Chuck.

  Chuck winced. “Wrong tool for the job.”

  “Only tool we got. The needle-nose should be able to fit.”

  “I work on cars all day. Wrong tool always leads to more problems.”

  “Do we have a choice?” Duncan asked.

  “We could just wait it out,” Chuck said. “If they’re flooded, they’ll dry.”

  A good point.

  “And we can get a few more casts in,” Stu said.

  Duncan sighed, resigning himself to the situation. “Okay. I guess we get to keep fishing.”

  Stu didn’t have to be told twice. He picked up his rod and cast out.

  Chuck did as well.

  Duncan reached for his half bottle of water in the cup holder, and killed half of it, wincing because it had gotten warm. He squinted up through sunglasses at the hazy angry sun in the reddish sky, then found his tube of sunscreen on the floor and slathered more on his face, arms, and neck.

  While he protected himself against UV rays, nature took advantage and attacked him a different way. He yelped and slapped his thigh with a loud CRACK! as something stung him, or bit him, just above the knee, causing an electric jolt of pain.

  “What gotcha?” Stu asked.

  Duncan lifted his hand, and whatever he’d whacked—hard enough to get his friends’ attention—shook off the blow and flew into the air.

  It was big, and black, and buzzed away before Duncan got a good look.

  Then he checked his leg. A welt was already forming, with a bloody dot in the center oozing a drop of murky fluid. He carefully ran his fingertip over the bump, tender and hot to the touch.

  “Damn. That freaking hurts. Like I got a cigarette pressed to my leg.”

  “I missed it,” Stu said, getting up to take a look. “Was it a horsefly? A bee?”

  “No idea.”

  “Bees leave the stinger behind.” Stu bent down and squinted. “No stinger there. How much does it hurt on the Schmidt scale?”

  “Schmidt? Like Schmidt beer?” Chuck laughed. “That stuff really hurts.”

  Stu adjusted the brim of his Science Pimp cap. “Justin O. Schmidt. Creator of the Schmidt Sting Pain Index. He rated insect stings on a scale from 1 to 4. A fire ant is a 1, a honey bee is a 2, paper wasp is a 3, and so on.”

  “What’s a 4?” Chuck asked.

  “Schmidt had a few. The bullet ant. The warrior wasp. The tarantula hawk. Others have gone on to make their own ratings, to find which sting hurts the worst. There’s a general consensus of the worst. The executioner wasp. The Japanese murder hornet. The velvet ant.”

  “What’s with all the ants?” Chuck asked. “Everyone knows a wasp hurts worse than an ant.”

  “A velvet ant is technically a wasp without wings. But ants are badass. Did you know that if you took all the ants in the world they’d weigh more than all the humans? More total biomass. We’re talking over 20 quadrillion ants. That’s the number twenty, with fifteen zeroes after it. A thousand billion. It’s an unimaginable number.”

  “You’ve got to do something with your life, man,” Chuck told him.

  Stu was nonplussed. “Ants are going to take over the world someday. They use a hive-mind mentality. The leader, the queen, controls the colony, and the entire population communicates with pheromones. It’s like airborne telepathy. Each ant functions like the cell of a larger animal. It’s known as a super organism.”

  “A super orgasm?” Chuck said. “I’m all for that.”

  “Funny.” Stu didn’t seem like he found it funny. He continued, “They can link together like a rope and climb over each other. Some ants can lift fifty to a hundred times their own body weight. During the rainy season, some ants build a raft out of their bodies so they can float on the flood waters. We’re talking millions of ants, all linked together, several meters wide.”

  “Don’t they drown?” Chuck asked.

  “They take turns being underwater so none of them drown,” Stu explained.

  “They should make that a ride at the waterpark,” Chuck said. “Call it a bite barge.”

  “Ants can bite, but the stings are what really hurts. Spiders and centipedes are like snakes; the bite contains venom. With ants and wasps, the venom is in the stinger on the end of the abdomen. And ants have some of the most toxic venom in the world. The bullet ant is called the bullet ant because getting stung hurts worse than getting shot.”

  “I’m pretty sure getting shot is worse,” Chuck said.

  “You get shot, you’re in pain, and it immediately starts to heal. A bullet ant sting is agony for over twenty-four straight hours. And that’s if you’re lucky and only one bites you. You get attacked by the colony, and there are stories of people killing themselves to stop the pain.”

  Duncan, who was watching his leg swell up and was only half-paying attention, finally chimed in. “I’d call this a 3 out of 4 on your Schmidt scale,” he said.

  Maybe even a 3.5. This hurts like hell.

  Stu raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? There’s nothing in Wisconsin that should reach a 3. Most of the heavy hitters are from Central and South America.”

  Duncan shivered, then rubbed his hands on his face. “Ever smash your thumb with a hammer? That’s what this feels like.”

  “I wish you saw what it was,” Stu lamented.

  “I wish I never see another one.” Duncan squinted at his thigh, which continued to puff up, and then remembered he had one of those insect pain relief pen sticks in his tackle box. He hunted for it and gave it a shake before uncapping it and bathing his thigh in benzocaine and menthol.

  It helped, but his whole leg still burned.

  On a whim, Duncan turned the ignition key and tried to start the engine.

  The engine didn’t start.

  So what now?

  Duncan picked up his pole.

  While waiting for the spark plugs to dry, we might as well fish.

  When in Rome, right?

  Duncan eyed the clearing and cast out his lure, and for some reason couldn’t stop thinking about the fall of the Roman Empire.

  KATIE

  SAME TIME, MILES AWAY…

  Katie loved being part of the flight crew.

  She loved the travel, loved the pay, and for the most part loved the up-in-the-air nature of the job (literally), where schedules, destinations, and layovers could change at a moment’s notice.

  But cancellations are the worst. And my first flight was cancelled due to Canadian wildfires.

  This meant waiting, which Katie didn’t mind. There always seemed to be old friends to catch up with, or new friends to meet. Every airport had its quirks and secrets that were fun to explore. Her home base, MSP, wasn’t very big compared to other airports, but it was a quick and free shuttle to the nearby Mall of America—her current destination—and that place was massive and never got boring.

  Which was fine for delays. But a cancelled flight was a completely different animal. Katie was on call for a three-day pairing, MSP to Seattle, overnight layover, Seattle to San Diego, overnight layover, back to Minneapolis-St. Paul, then the drive back home to Spoonward. She liked this run, and bid a lot to get it. But miss the first on-board and the whole trip evaporated. The personnel at scheduling were usually good at reassigning crews, but if everything was full there really wasn’t much to do except hope.

  It was going on six hours since she’d checked in, and nothing had opened up. Looking out the shuttle window going west on I-494, Katie’s mind wandered.

  Worst case scenario, they can’t find anything, and I get sent back home tomorrow.

  That would suck. She needed the money and only got paid for block time, which began on the plane once the door closed. Ground time didn’t pay, except for meal stipends.

  And rent is coming…

  While Katie made a decent living, constant travel meant constant temptation to spend. New restaurants. New tourist traps. New shops. While working, Katie treated herself well.

  Sometimes too well. And bills are due and I need a big paycheck. The money came from being on crew, not from being grounded. Losing this run meant losing three good flights.

  She thought about her boyfriend, Duncan. Currently on vacation with his buddies, at his parent’s house on Lake Niboowin.

  It would save us both a lot of money if we moved in together.

  But that’s a big step. A big commitment.

  They were already a couple. Katie’s hesitation wasn’t due to monogamy aversion. While being an FA offered her almost unlimited opportunity to meet attractive guys, and she’d had a few flings since starting the job, after dating Duncan for a while they’d decided to become exclusive, and Katie hadn’t regretted it.

  But moving in represented a much higher level of commitment.

  I’m not sure I’m ready for it. And I have a feeling he’s going to ask me after his trip.

  And I don’t know what my answer will be.

  On one hand, I love him and practically already live with him when I’m home.

  On the other hand, having my own apartment is more than just a place for my stuff and for occasional needed privacy. It’s symbolic. I’m a young, self-sufficient woman in the prime of my life. It wasn’t too long ago that I was dependent on my parents.

  Do I want to be dependent on a guy?

  The shuttle reached its destination and Katie got off, turning her face to the summer sun while walking across the parking lot, past the giant multicolored star-sculpture, to the massive red, white, and blue marquee above the Mall of America entrance.

  The largest mall in the Western hemisphere. Five hundred shops and restaurants, an indoor theme park, an aquarium, movie theaters, a flight simulator, and pretty much everything a person needed to waste time and money while waiting for a scheduling call.

  Katie wandered the mall with a vague notion of finding something caffeinated, and perhaps a snack. When her cell phone buzzed, she had it in hand fast, hoping it was crew sked or Duncan.

  It was neither.

  And it was bad. Very bad.

  HOW’S THE MALL, BITCH?

  Katie’s heart rate kicked up, but she fought her emotional response and instead went on practiced autopilot, taking a screenshot and blocking the caller.

  I thought this was over.

  I hoped this was over.

  But it’s happening again.

  Katie tried to shake off the fear and focus on the plan.

  I need to stay calm. Stay calm and focus.

  Keep all evidence.

  Don’t respond.

  This isn’t my fault.

  I can’t dwell on it.

  I won’t dwell on it.

  This person doesn’t deserve to be spending time in my head.

  But even though she knew the best course of action, the scary thoughts came anyway.

  How did this psychopath get my new number?

  Or know where I am?

  And why the continued obsession, after so much time has passed?

  How nuts was this nut?

  Her phone buzzed again. A different number. Katie winced at the texts.

  YOU CAN’T BLOCK ME.

  YOU’LL NEVER GET RID OF ME

  YOU

  FUCKING

  WHORE

  Another screenshot, another block. Katie considered turning her phone off. But she couldn’t, because she was on call for work.

  I either deal with the wacko, or lose my job.

  Katie walked to a nearby bench and sat down, focusing on her breathing, on getting her heartbeat under control.

  She considered the pills in her purse.

  Xanax. Prescribed for panic attacks.

  They take the edge off, but they also make me lethargic. And being on a flight crew didn’t mesh well with lethargy. It’s about being high energy. Being happy and helpful and busy and attentive.

  Xanax isn’t an option. I can hold it together. I’ll just do some shopping and—

  Yet another buzz. Yet another text from yet another new number.

  YOU LOOK SCARED.

  Alarmed, Katie immediately stopped and turned in a full circle, searching for anyone staring at her. The mall was busy enough, easily fifty people within the line of sight, plus more above her on different floors.