No one stood out. Katie screenshotted the text and blocked the new number and wondered how this could still be going on, after all this time.

  I’m not being watched.

  It’s a bluff. It’s got to be a bluff.

  How is this still happening?

  I’ve changed numbers twice. I’ve bought privacy apps. I’ve called the police.

  Involving the police worked for Duncan.

  Why can’t they do anything to keep this crazy asshole out of my life?

  Convincing herself that the stalker couldn’t possibly be in the mall with her, Katie blocked the latest number and briskly walked to the escalators. As she ascended her eyes were constantly scanning the area.

  I don’t see anyone watching. Just shoppers. Couples. Mothers pushing strollers. A group of older women doing a mall walk.

  Nobody looking at me. Nobody I recognize.

  A new bad thought rose up among all the other bad thoughts.

  Should I be looking for a disguise? A hat and sunglasses? A fake beard?

  If someone’s spying on me, it could be anyone.

  Katie went up another level, her paranoia rising. She considered going to mall security, but dismissed it.

  If no one is actually following me, what can they do?

  Then she considered her personal defense items. In Spoonward, Katie carried pepper spray. But TSA didn’t allow it on flights, so all she had was her personal keychain alarm—kind of an electronic rape whistle Duncan had given her—which let out a piercing electronic shriek when pressed.

  It is super loud and can draw attention. But it likely wouldn’t scare away this stalker.

  Nothing will scare away this stalker.

  Katie shook her head quickly, as if trying to fling away the fear.

  It’s just gaslighting. Trying to scare me.

  No one is watching.

  No one is stalking.

  It’s just some harassing texts.

  There’s no threat.

  I’m not in danger.

  I’m not in—

  YOU THINK YOU CAN GET AWAY BY GOING UP?

  Katie almost dropped her phone.

  She raised it to take a screenshot and block, and another text came on her screen.

  IF YOU BLOCK ANOTHER NUMBER I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL DUNCAN

  Then a picture popped onto the screen.

  A picture of Duncan. Fishing on his pontoon, with his buddies Chuck and Stu.

  DUNCAN

  SAME TIME…

  “How’s the sting?” Stu asked.

  Duncan, whose eyes had been closed, stared up at his friend, and then he glanced down at his leg.

  Still swollen and red, but the pain had receded.

  “Better.”

  “Could have been some kind of wasp. Did you know there are over one hundred thousand species of wasp?”

  “Why would I know that?” Duncan asked.

  Why would anyone know that was the better question.

  “Stu is the Bug Lord,” Chuck said, throwing out another cast. “Oh mighty Bug Lord, please tell us how many insects there are in the world.”

  Stu bit. “All insects combined? That’s over 10 quintillion. Ten with eighteen zeroes. It’s an unimaginable number. Over a billion metric tons. They weigh more than all people and all livestock, combined. Think human beings are masters of this planet? We’re not even close. It’s arthropods for the win.”

  Chuck did a mock bow. “Thank you, Bug Lord. We are but your humble pupils.”

  “You mean my humble pupas,” Stu said, then laughed at his own pun.

  They’d fished the clearing in the marsh for a solid half an hour, without a single bite. Duncan had tried two more times to start the boat, and had failed both times. The day had gotten hotter, the bottled water was gone, and there weren’t any signs of another boat anywhere on the lake except for that one deeper in the marsh that hadn’t moved.

  At least the bugs have stayed away.

  “I am parched, guys.” Chuck mopped some sweat off his brow with his forearm. “Want to try it again, Duncan?”

  Duncan once again tried to start the boat.

  And once again it failed to start.

  After a moment of frustrated silence, Stu said, “Your boat sucks.”

  “It’s better than your boat.”

  “If I had a boat, I’d have one that starts,” Stu countered. Then he gave the rickety gunwale aluminum railing a shake. “And one that wasn’t held together with zip ties.”

  “Zip ties are like duct tape,” Duncan said. “A million uses.”

  “So why didn’t you use duct tape on the railings?” Stu asked.

  “I didn’t have any.”

  Duncan rubbed his sore leg, wondering what to do next.

  “Fire,” Chuck said. “Gotta be the plugs. No combustion.”

  “We’ve been waiting for the spark plugs to dry out. How long do we have to wait?”

  “If they’re gunked they won’t dry. They need to be wiped off.”

  “All I have are the needle-nose pliers,” Duncan reminded him. “You said they’re the wrong tool.”

  “They are. Break a plug, we’re screwed.”

  “We’re already screwed,” Stu chimed in. “Unless we finally get some sort of breeze, we’re dead in the water. And I am thirsty. Really, really thirsty. Beer sounds so good right now.”

  So what are the options?

  Try to clean the spark plugs after taking them out with pliers?

  Or wade into the leech-infested marsh and try to make it to shore without getting stuck in the muck?

  Duncan remembered the muck. He remembered it all too well. Him and Woof, slowly sinking, scared out of their minds.

  So he reached for the pliers and went back to the outboard, unplugged the wire, and gazed at the first spark plug. The tips were just long enough to reach the hex shell where a socket would fit. Duncan clamped down tight, twisting… twisting…

  The tips slipped.

  He tried again, putting his shoulders into it, and the plug began to turn.

  After getting it started Duncan used his fingers to finish twisting it free. Sure enough the threads were dirty and the electrodes black and fuzzy, with oil and carbon completely filling the gap.

  “You were right, Chuck. It’s fouled.”

  “Give it here.”

  Duncan handed it to Chuck to clean off, then tried to loosen the second plug.

  It was really stuck in there. Duncan grunted with effort, his back tightening, his hands clenched white, the cords in his neck stretched out like steel cables.

  “Don’t crack the ceramic, bro,” Chuck warned.

  Duncan squeezed his eyes shut, seeing stars, his ears ringing, putting all his strength into it—

  —and then giving up.

  “I can’t get it.” Duncan wiped the sweat off his forehead with his forearm, then scratched the bump on his sore thigh.

  Why did I have to go into the goddamn marsh?

  Again?

  Didn’t I learn my lesson from last time?

  “Maybe only one was bad,” Chuck suggested. He handed over the plug he’d polished. “Put this back and try.”

  Duncan took the spark plug and carefully placed it back in the socket. He tightened, first with his fingers, then with the pliers. After replacing the wire, Duncan sat back in the captain’s chair and gave the ignition key a desperate twist—

  —and the engine caught.

  Not prepared to celebrate until they were back on his dock and heading for beer, Duncan shifted into gear and the boat lurched forward. He eyed the bare spot in the reeds where they’d entered, keeping the speed low, checking behind him to make sure the trim was high enough so he didn’t get the lower end foul with muck and weeds again because he didn’t want to risk another stall.

  Maybe it’s time to overhaul this old motor, clean it top to bottom. Too hot to fish today anyway. With Chuck helping, a few beers, and some online videos, we can strip it down to the bolts and make sure everything works perfect.

  Chuck gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Teamwork makes the dream—”

  The motor coughed, then died.

  Undeterred, Duncan pulled the shifter back into neutral and tried to start it again.

  It chugged, but didn’t catch.

  Again… same thing.

  Again… same thing.

  Again… same goddamn thing.

  Duncan smacked the steering wheel with his palm in frustration as the pontoon slowed down and eventually came to a stop in the reeds.

  There was a slapping sound, and Chuck swore, “Goddamn flies.”

  “Goddamn flies?” Stu snorted. “Goddamn boat.”

  Duncan scratched his thigh. “Gotta be the other plug. We just need to get it loose.”

  “Lemme try.” Chuck held his palm out for the pliers, and Duncan tossed them over.

  Chuck pulled off the wire and spent a minute grunting and straining, unable to get the plug out.

  “Any chance you got some WD-40 on this boat?”

  “Naw.” Duncan scratched his thigh. “Got some reel oil in the tackle box.”

  “We can try it.”

  Duncan opened his Umco and fished around the bottom to find the tiny vial of oil that came with a reel he’d bought years ago. He found it under the first-aid kit, and gripped the clear plastic bottle between his thumb and index finger and gave it a shake.

  A few drops left.

  He passed it to Chuck, who squeezed the contents onto the spark plug.

  Duncan scratched his thigh again, then took a closer look. A serious bump had formed, with a yellowish top, like a boil. Duncan pressed it, and winced at the instant pain that rivaled the original sting.

  “Stu, got a bug question.”

  “As the Bug Lord, I shall answer appropriately. Speak, minion.”

  “Can bugs kill a person?” Duncan asked.

  Stu scratched his chubby cheek. “That’s complicated. They have, throughout history. Half of the people who have ever lived have died of malaria, spread by mosquitos. That’s 52 billion people, going back to the dawn of humanity.”

  “An unimaginable number,” Chuck teased.

  “Plus they carry other viruses, hemorrhagic fever, encephalitis, parasitic worms. Bubonic plague, the black death, was spread by flea bites. That’s two hundred million. Ticks and flies can spread bacteria, viruses, parasites, protozoa. Want to gross yourself out? Google images of Leishmaniasis. A sandfly bite spreads protozoa that breed in the skin and cause these gaping ulcers—”

  “How about insects killing people without any diseases?” Duncan interrupted, purposely.

  “You mean by themselves? Just venom?”

  Duncan nodded.

  Stu scratched his arm. “Only about a hundred people die a year from insect stings in the US. And that is usually a result of anaphylactic shock; an allergic reaction. Insect venom by itself is delivered in such small amounts, and it takes a lot of venom to kill a person. There have been a few cases of babies being stung to death, like a parent leaving a stroller next to a wasp nest.”

  “Jesus,” Chuck coughed and spat, “that’s awful.”

  “But an adult? Even with multiple stings? I don’t know any cases where that happened.”

  “How about killer bees?” Chuck asked.

  Stu shrugged. “The Africanized honey bee isn’t more venomous than indigenous bees. It’s just more aggressive. There have been stories of ants in South America that take over towns and eat everything that can’t run away. Like a colony of a few billion marching ants swarming over a hospital, the people evacuate but leave a patient behind. Can you imagine? You’re a burn victim, or recovering from surgery, stuck in a bed, unable to move, and then you’re slowly covered with biting, stinging ants.”

  “That’s horrible,” Duncan said. “On the big island, in Hawaii, we had a problem with Little Fire Ants.”

  “Electric ants.” Stu nodded rapidly. “Wasmannia auropunctata. They’re so tiny you can barely see them unless you’re really close up.”

  “You can sure feel them, though.”

  “They stung you?” Chuck asked.

  “I was barefoot, and I stepped in some dead leaves. They swarmed up my ankle like I was wearing a red sock. It felt like I was being electrocuted. Hurt even more than that time I broke my finger. Whole foot swelled up, had welts for a week.”

  “Insects have been used as forms of execution by torture.” Stu was obviously relishing the conversation. “There have been stories of Native American tribes smearing a victim with honey and staking them to an ant hill. Sometimes with the eyelids cut off, or skewers in the mouth forcing it open. Insects would sting the mucus membranes, and inflammation would close the airways. Suffocating in agony.”

  “Nice,” Chuck said.

  “Worse was scaphism. Do you want to hear about it?”

  “Not really,” Duncan said.

  Stu glanced at Chuck, who shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Scaphism involved taking a person—”

  “He’s telling us anyway,” Duncan said.

  “—and tying them up, naked, in a boat. You force-feed them milk and honey, which causes diarrhea—”

  “Gross,” Chuck said.

  “—which fills up the boat, attracting bugs. So then the victim is floated out into a bog or swamp—”

  “Or marsh,” Duncan interrupted.

  “—and the bugs begin to feast. They can’t be slapped or waved away because you’re tied up. So they bite and they sting. But they do more than bite and sting. They also wallow in your shit… and lay eggs… everywhere.”

  Chuck began to laugh. “Jesus, man, there really is something wrong with you.”

  Stu laughed along. “Persian form of execution. Happened to a soldier named Mithridates. Supposedly took him seventeen days to die.”

  “I call bullshit,” Duncan said. “Would have died of thirst before that.”

  “They kept feeding him more milk and honey.”

  “Guy wouldn’t have drank it.”

  “They pricked his eyes until he swallowed.”

  “Jesus.” Duncan rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry I asked. Chuck, can you give the plug another try?”

  Chuck approached the outboard, rolled his head on his neck in an apparent attempt to loosen up, and went at the spark plug again.

  He grunted.

  He strained.

  He failed.

  “Did you freakin’ glue it in?” he asked.

  Shit.

  “Maybe if we both try?” Duncan suggested.

  Chuck agreed, and Duncan put his hands on the handles of the pliers, and Chuck put his hands on Duncan’s. They both twisted until Duncan felt like his fingers were cracking and his skin was rubbing off.

  “Stop. Stop!” Chuck let go and Duncan dropped the pliers onto the floor of the boat and shook his hands, trying to get the pain to fade. “Shit, that sucker won’t budge.”

  “Maybe it requires a more scientific touch,” Stu said, picking up the pliers and coming over to the stern.

  They gave him a wide berth, and Stu placed the pliers on the spark plug and began to strain with effort.

  “Careful,” Chuck warned. “Don’t break the plug.”

  Stu heaved, his face turning stop-sign red.

  He gave up after less than five seconds.

  “I think I loosened it,” he declared, in the lamest way possible.

  “Lemme try again.” Chuck raised his hand.

  Stu tossed the pliers, a poor toss, and Duncan watched in horror as Chuck tried to make the catch and the tool bounced off of his fingers—

  —and went right over the edge of the boat, plopping into the water.

  “Shit,” Stu said. “Sorry, Duncan.”

  “Yeah,” Chuck concurred. “Sorry, man.”

  Duncan rubbed his eyes. “Oh man, guys. Just… man.”

  “Seriously?” Stu said. “They were an old set of pliers. You can get them for fifty cents at a thrift store.”

  “I got a dozen pairs of pliers,” Chuck said. “Decent brands. I’ll give you one.”

  “It’s not the money,” Duncan lamented. “I’ve got five pairs of pliers.”

  “So why the sad face?” Chuck asked.

  “Those were the only needle-nose pliers I had on the boat, guys.”

  The three men exchanged glances.

  “How about other pliers?” Chuck asked.

  “I’ve got my Swiss Army knife.” The one Josh had given him so many years ago. “It has pliers. Good for taking out fish hooks, but too small for a spark plug.”

  Stu uttered a nervous laugh. “So, what now? We have to row back?”

  That would have been possible if Duncan had bought a bass boat. Bass boats had an emergency oar. Most bass boats also had a trolling motor along with a gas motor.

  But Duncan had gone for the pontoon. The party barge.

  You can’t row a party barge.

  “No oar locks on a pontoon,” Duncan said, “and no place on board to paddle from. But we can check. Maybe the previous owners left something.”

  On the off chance that there was an oar stashed somewhere on board, Duncan told his friends to open the padded seats. Beneath the cushions was storage space, usually used to hold life jackets and floats.

  They found four jackets, a rusty old air horn, some extra nylon rope attached to an anchor, and a fire extinguisher.

  But no oars.

  “I have zero signal,” Stu said, holding up his cell.

  “Try mine,” Duncan told him.

  Stu reached into the bag and checked Duncan’s phone. After fiddling with it for a few seconds, he handed it over.

  Black screen.

  “Stu, did you turn this off when I gave it to you?”

  “I just threw it in the bag.”

  “Dead battery,” Duncan said.

  “Is there a charger on the boat?” Stu asked.

  “It’s a 1984 Palm Beach,” Duncan said. “The radio has a cassette deck. USB wasn’t invented.”

  “You could have hooked up a port to the battery,” Stu said.

  “I could have. I could have also kept a spark plug wrench on board. And extra pliers. And oars. And I could have hooked up a goddamn trolling motor in case the engine ever died. But I didn’t. I didn’t do any of that shit, because I never could have predicted I’d be in this situation. So let’s move on. Chuck? Phone?”