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If the RV park were full you’d have to weave through trailers and kids and dogs, but thanks to the offseason, the 50-spot park is currently populated only by you. This gives you plenty of personal space, and the luxury of cutting straight through the park to reach the edge of town. The gravel underfoot gives way to cracked sidewalk as you reach the path that takes you there. It’s lined by carefully-planted yellow birch trees that won’t live up to their name until after summer, when their green leaves shift to a shock of warm yellow before they fall from the tree entirely. Long catkins mingle with thin wisps of sand blown inland by the winds and crunch under your boots, creating a gritty rhythm that holds your attention until a sudden soft rustling draws your eyes from the ground.

A small black parcel of fur darts up a tree down the path on your left. It comes to a sudden rest on a low branch and perches, long puffy tail flitting wildly as the rest of its body remains perfectly still. You gaze at its beady eyes- just as dark as its body, and unafraid to stare right back at you.

A melanistic morph of an eastern gray squirrel. Rare elsewhere in the country, they riddle the Great Lakes basin and seem to be particularly fond of Michigan. You’ve become largely indifferent to them, any affection earned through their cuteness and unique coloring balanced by their penchant for chewing holes into your trailer for nut storage. The two of you keep an eye on one another as you pass under its branch. You hear it chitter softly behind you as you continue on your way.

A quarter mile’s walk later and you’ve consumed most of the coffee and reached your destination. The wind ceases as you step into the large commercial block, the southern brick walls serving as a barrier, giving relief to your wind-whipped cheeks. It also serves to make the near-vacant block feel even more desolate than it already is. Shoulders up and your head down, you see just one other soul occupying the sidewalk, a store owner on their way to open their establishment for the sake of four, maybe five customers total. You walk by them without so much as a nod, a cardinal sin flying in the face of standard midwestern customs. You can’t be bothered to care. The Floatation Station awaits you.

There are two features that separate this store from its almost identical neighbors. The first is a gaudy teal door, the neglected paint cracked and weathered by decades of wind and snow, revealing pale teak wood underneath. The second is a vague scent of oysters. It wafts out to greet you as you press the thumb latch on the worn bronze door handle and push the door open. Jingling sleighbells announce your arrival.

“Just in the nick of time.”

“You owe me sixty five dollars and seventy-five cents.”

The man at the counter snorts, just as he has nearly every morning for the past 266 days. The joke has not gotten any funnier during that time, and the 25 cent tax you imposed upon him for saying it on day three has only grown. You’ll collect, one of these days.

The store is small, a modest few hundred square feet filled with boating supplies and accessories. The counter is parallel to the front, straight back from the door, separated by tightly-packed metal shelves full of ropes and tools and pipes and circuits and any other thing you could want to keep your boat alive. You pass through the shelves to reach the counter and the man standing behind it.

“I told yew, I’m puttin’ that in a 401k for ya. Yeh’ll see it pay out when yeh’re sixty five.”

“You’re such a good boss, Nick,” you deadpan as you take your spot next to him, sipping your last bit of coffee before placing it on the counter. You pull a till from a compartment underneath, place it next to your mug, and get to tabulating. Twenty fives, ten tens, five twenties, twenty ones, laying the bills on the counter as you count. He pulls his eyes away from the order sheet he’s lazily scribbling on to glance at your mug.

“Yeh’know I’ll put that retirement cash towards a thermos for yeh too.”

“-twenty, forty, sixty- that’s my favorite mug. Stop trying to get me to get rid of it -eighty, one hundred.”

Nick shrugs. “Whatever yeh say, sweetheart.”

You don’t even bristle at the over-familiar term of endearment anymore. You stopped caring after day 46. You slide the till in the register and the dusty, warbling cuckoo clock on the wall tells you it’s 9 a.m. Opening time.

You slowly make your way to the door to switch the closed sign to open, steps dragging against the worn green carpet that lines the floor as you approach with malaise. The thin laminated sign feels heavy in your hand as you flip it against the window. As you walk back, Nick takes a ledger from another compartment under the counter and prepares to go to his office, a small room tucked behind the counter to the left. Before he does, he spews another grating refrain, the one that took you the longest to get used to.

“And don’t ferget to smile!”

You cheese a grin that doesn’t meet your eyes.

“When yeh gonna give me a real one?” he asks, again in an overly familiar tone, as if the two of you are sharing a joke. You’re radiating waves of ire that you’re sure could be picked up by a Geiger counter, but he remains oblivious.

“When you say something real funny,” you reply through your joyless grin.

Nick’s wasted a lot of breath trying to get you to be more lively, whether for a customer’s sake or his own. You haven’t exactly been the most animated person since you came to town. You’ve adopted a half-lidded, mirthless aspect, and it’s a practiced one, carefully maintained to convey an utter lack of concern or eagerness as part of your defensive strategy. Perceived aggressive apathy is a good way to get people to leave you alone, for the most part. Your innate expression is an unimpressed shield, one that won’t be dented by a barely-tolerable small town boss, try as he might.

You drop the forced smile as soon as Nick is out of sight. You hear the gentle creak of his office chair as he settles into it, the spot where he will remain for the next eight hours. You look over your shoulder in the direction of his office. Your eyes linger on the door, which he always keeps ajar- open enough to appear available, but closed enough to keep his long-running game of Farmville away from prying eyes. On the door hangs a poster, vintage and tattered, advertising New Mexico: The Land of Enchantment.

A long highway cuts through bright sand and burnt orange mountains, rocky outcrops chopped and squared against a vivid azure sky. White clouds hang like soft cotton, so round and fluffy they look like you could take a bite out of them. On the highway is a lone cherry red pickup truck pulling an Airstream camper behind it, reflecting in the sunlight, a gleaming silver bullet rocketing through the desert. Tumbleweed and humble green brush dot either side of the road. At the bottom, a crisp cursive script eagerly informs you: We’re Waiting For You!

It inspires a small pang of anxiety. You’ve been getting these with increased frequency the closer you get to the summer season. You pose the question to yourself again: am I really going to stay here?

You halt the internal conversation before it can even begin. You don’t want to think about this right now. You tear your eyes away from the poster, ripping thoughts of open roads and sunshine into bright, shining shreds.

By three o’clock you’ve reached your standard level of insanity. Bored nearly to the point of tears, you’ve had three customers all day, not a surprise considering the time of year. This town is dependent on summertime travelers. The period after Labor Day and before Memorial Day leaves the town of several hundred inhabitants vacant and sterile outside of the mostly workmen and odd winter tourist coming through. As cold as you are towards your boss, you’d appreciate it if he could at least somewhat break up the monotony; but he quarantines himself every day, stuck to his computer and his virtual farm while you wither behind the counter. With two hours to go, time has slowed to an enervated crawl, and you’re contemplating what it might feel like to jump out of one of the tall and narrow display windows up front.

You definitely aren’t expecting the pleasant surprise that steps through the door while you’re imagining glass shards skipping across the sidewalk.

The surprise is solidly built. Not too tall, not too short, standing ramrod straight, wearing a navy duffle coat overtop a dark red turtleneck, heavy boots, and black pants. All topped with a square jaw, dark gray hair curling over a pair of rounded browline glasses, and a bright gaze, far sharper than the ones you normally see enter this place. You straighten up in your spot immediately and watch his eyes travel over the various shelves and racks, searching for something.

“Can I help you?” you call from behind the counter. His head snaps to you as if he hadn’t noticed you before, and you can’t help but observe: he’s handsome.

He’s on the other side of middle-aged- you’d be forgiven for thinking otherwise. All of the more subtle signs of his age being easily missed if you’re too distracted by the jaw sharp enough to use as a ruler, but it’s clear in his face once you start looking elsewhere. Deep lines run in the space between his thick eyebrows and plenty of wrinkles play around his eyes. You can see the beginnings of sagging skin on his neck, just a sliver where his flesh is visible above the high turtleneck. Despite his attentive gaze there’s a tiredness in his eyes- not just the result of one or two nights’ poor sleep, but of many years of toil.

He wears it all quite well.

“Yes! Yes actually, you can. I’m looking for a basic pair of flush-mount cleats, preferably steel, but bronze would do.”

You so rarely have to exercise any knowledge of the products you sell that it takes you a second to realize what he’s asking for.

“Oh! Oh yeah, for sure, we have that. Here,” you say, leaving the counter and making what you hope is not-too-strong eye contact with him, “follow me.”

He gives a quick nod and proceeds to meet you. He moves swiftly, not meandering like most of your clientele do, almost surprising you when you reach the aisle that contains what he’s looking for and find he’s already right behind you. You gesture to the section of the aisle that holds cleats and he locates what he needs after just a glance. He reaches out to grab a packaged pair from the shelf and you see his hand is… bigger… than expected.

It takes you a moment to realize an extra finger is the source of the discrepancy. When he raises his other hand to inspect the cleats you find the same is true for that one as well. You peel your eyes away, not wanting to be rude, but you can’t help a bubbling excitement at the discovery. This is already the most interesting day you’ve had in this store since you started working here. Well, except for that one day last October when a fisherman visiting from the Atlantic accidentally let several dozen crabs loose in the fine establishment.

You shake the memory of pincers and snipped pantlegs and return your focus to the alluring man in front of you.

“Thank you. You know, while I’m here I really should pick up a pair of solenoids, I’m sure ours are due for a replacement. Can you point me in that direction as well?”

“Solenoid.” You parrot the word to jog your memory. You cock your head, unable to conjure it. “Can you describe it to me?”

“It’s a small electrical conductor, cylindrical with two nodes. They have various uses- even doorbells have them- but for my purposes it’s for our starter.”

You put on your best thinking face. “Hmm. Well if it’s electrical, I have a guess. Over here.”

You lead him to another aisle filled with electronic doodads beyond your deeper understanding. He again finds it easily, and a nervous desire raises in your chest as he nods at the item in his hand. You’re not ready for this interaction to end so soon. You proceed to do something you haven’t tried in almost nine months: you attempt to strike up conversation.

“You know, I’ve always wondered how that kind of thing works. Electricity might as well be magic for all I know.”

Something in the man lights up at this. It’s restrained, subtle, but unmistakable. As he rips his gaze away from the package in his hand and looks at you, his eyebrows loosen a bit, easing the furrow they’d been drawn into. You see a tiny glint in his eye, a microscopic spark cutting through his otherwise guarded expression.

“Good science can often be indistinguishable from magic. The intricacies of most modern technologies would be considered miracles if not for our understanding of the mechanisms that allow them.”

You’re taken aback by the sudden verbosity and charmed by his flash of enthusiasm. He hasn’t been dour or off-putting, but there has been a certain layer of awkwardness over your interaction with him so far, one that gives you the impression he’s not particularly interested in idle chatter. This, however, is an in. You can use this.

You seize this small burst of reciprocal interest with both hands, ready to wring every last drop of engagement out of it.

“Wow, well said. Are you a scientist or something?”

“You could certainly say that. One of my PHDs is in electrical engineering.”

You blink.

“One of your PHDs?”

“Yes. I knocked that one out in tandem with mathematics and physics, so it really wasn’t that difficult considering the overlap in subject matter.”

You blink again. Is he trying to be funny? He doesn’t seem to be- his tone is matter of fact, not joking or overly braggadocios, though there’s an unmistakable pride evident in his voice.

This is definitely the most interesting thing you’ve had happen in this store since you got here. Not to mention one of the most attractive. A couple dozen crabs don’t even come close.

“Wow,” you say again, laying it on a little thicker than you intend, out of practice in the art of banter. “That’s amazing! I bet you’re a great teacher.”

“Well, they do say if you can’t explain the subject of your expertise to a layman, you’re not truly an expert. I used to think some subject matter was simply beyond the ken of all but a select few, but really, most people are capable of learning complex subjects with the right amount of dedication. And tolerance for prolonged sleep deprivation.”

“I’d love to pick your brain,” you say even thicker, strengthening your eye contact, trying to wordlessly exude an eagerness that will keep him talking. “What’s your favorite subject?”

He doesn’t seem to be picking up on your subtleties, but to your relief, he engages with you nonetheless. He jumps into a comparison of his love for physics and mathematics, the totality of them both, rulers of the universe. He becomes gradually more animated the longer he talks, shedding his prior awkwardness as he latches onto subject matter he appears to deeply enjoy rambling about. You get the feeling he might be indulging now because he hasn’t had the opportunity to in quite some time.

You are genuinely interested and happy to operate as his release valve, yet much of his verbiage is over your head. Still, you’re just glad he’s willing to talk to you at all. Even if you don’t understand everything he’s saying, you’re enjoying the bits you do. You let him go for a while, trying to comprehend his comparisons while also attempting to plan your next response and how to escalate into the realm of mild flirtation.

Your motivation for flirtation is not reflective of any real desire for something to come out of it. Though you wouldn’t refuse it should the right opportunity come along, you certainly don’t expect any sort of significant outcome. No, your attempt is little more than a symptom of being bored out of your absolute mind and desperately clawing for any kind of interesting, memorable human exchange. You’ll likely never see this man again, assuming he’s simply passing through as most do, so you might as well try to squeeze all the fun out of this interaction while you can.

You’re struggling to find a good approach, though. To call you “rusty” would be an understatement. It’s been over one hundred days since you last attempted such a thing with a customer, and an immeasurable amount of time before that since you were last successful. Fossilized would be a more accurate term.

He’s switching tracks to quantum entanglement when the sleigh bells announce another visitor.

A new man stands in the doorway.

He looks like the handsome nerd in front of you, uncannily so, but with many key differences. He’s broader, heavier, a default scowl etched on his face. Lighter hair peeks out from under a red beanie, front and back, showing hints of a sprouting mullet. His jacket is a warm chocolate brown, made of worn leather, thick creases around the elbows and shoulders highlighting a pair of very large arms. The shirt underneath is white with a broad horizontal red stripe across the torso, the line curving comfortably over a moderate gut. An equally worn pair of faded blue jeans sit underneath, hems grazing a pair of muddy black boots similar to the other man’s. You catch a small glint next to his face as he turns his head and inspects the shop- a small gold earring dangles from his right ear. His similarly bright eyes lay upon the two of you.

“You find what you need or not?” He pointedly asks the guy who is very obviously his brother.

“Nearly, yes,” the man responds, quickly switching tracks again. “I should just pick up one more item while I’m here. Can you tell me if you have screwdrivers?”

You stutter, thrown off by the sudden change. “Y-yeah, aisle two over there.”

Before you can offer to lead him, he’s off.

You turn to his brother. Hands in his pockets and shoulders squared, he has an air of defensiveness making him less immediately approachable; this is only exacerbated by the heavy-lidded, unimpressed expression he wears, and the distracted look in his eye that makes him appear as if he’s lost in thought. Despite this, his identically defined jaw entices you enough to make contact.

“Anything I can help you with?”

His gaze snaps to you as soon as the first syllable leaves your mouth. His eyes shift as you finish the sentence, now fully present and fixed on you with a certain intensity as they take in your face. For a brief moment, you worry you’re about to regret asking.

”Yeah. How do you spell hors d’oeuvres?”

Silence settles thick in the space between you for a long moment before it’s broken by a violent sound: a snort, ripping its way through your nose. Then a laugh ejects itself from you, then several laughs after, falling from your mouth entirely unforced, something that hasn’t happened to you for quite some time. You weren’t expecting such a silly response from this outwardly humorless man, and by god, it’s tickled you.

All considerations regarding the handsome nerd perusing the screwdrivers two aisles over leave your mind. This one’s fun.

You see his entire disposition change as he watches you. It’s not overt- he stays where he stands and hands remain in his pockets, but he’s straightened up, rolled his shoulders back, and replaced his grumpy scowl with a pleased smirk at the sight of your laughter. Once you calm down, a smile stuck on your lips, you straighten up too.

“Sorry, I can’t help you there, sir.”

“What, you don’t got a dictionary in the back?”

His reply is quick and easy, a playful jab. It takes a moment for your mirth-starved brain to come up with a satisfactory response.

“Sure we do, but that’s just for employees. We can’t have every Tom, Dick, and Harry coming in just to use the dictionary,” you joke, half a grin lingering on your face.

“Well I got a ‘members only’ jacket back at my place that I think you’ll find convincing.” he replies, again almost too quickly, leaving you scrambling to keep up.

“If you want to become a Flotation Station Secret Club Member, the jacket won’t be enough. You’ll also have to pass the convoluted secret handshake before we let you in.”

“That won’t be a problem,” he says, smirk growing, “I’m good with my hands.”

Your half grin breaks into a full one, eyebrow raised as you cock your head in great amusement at the flirtatious counter. It almost stuns you, both how casually he said it and how much you enjoyed it.

You’ve worked here long enough to have been subjected to your fair share of unwanted advances. Nothing dangerous or threatening, just standard customer service fare: patrons seemingly unable to comprehend that you’re paying attention to them out of obligation, rather than interest; no matter how strongly you’re emanating waves of pure, undiluted irritation. It’s played no small part in reinforcing your detached air and general dislike of your job. But this? This is different. This man’s approach is entirely unaggressive and devoid of desperation. He’s oozing ease, nonchalance, and more than a little cheekiness that you’re finding very enticing.

Though if you’re not mistaken, you think you can see beneath the casual exterior that the man is a little taken aback at himself, too.

You open your mouth, entirely unsure of what you’re going to say, wheels spinning to come up with some sort of comeback, but you’re interrupted by his brother calling “found it!” from across the store.

You both snap out of your shared eye contact to look at him.

“This is all I require, thank you.” He heads towards the counter to check out and you follow.

To your excitement, his brother follows too.

“So what’re you two passing through for?” you ask, letting the question hang for either to answer as you take your place behind the register.

“Oh we’re not passing through,” the alleged PHD-haver says. “We’ll be at the marina for a few weeks.”

You bite back a smile at the information, trying to play it cool, but the prospect of potentially seeing them again buoys your spirit in a way that’s hard to ignore.

“Business or pleasure?” You direct your gaze to the stocky brother currently wearing a slight smile while the other reaches into the deep pockets of his coat to fish for stray cash and coins.

“Sorry, but that’s confidential,” he says in a playfully cocky tone.

“Ooh, so you got your own big secret, huh? That’s mysterious. I like mystery.”

He draws the slight smile into a wide grin with a devious undercurrent. It enlivens his countenance, reeling you in, making his broad face even more handsome.

“You wouldn’t believe the nickname they got for me back home.”

He’s closer now, just a few feet away on the other side of the counter, and you take advantage of the proximity to catalogue the details of his face. His crow’s feet crinkle around his bright eyes and under his thick silver eyebrows. His lip lines vanish as they pull taut into that toothy smile. The commissures of his lips cut into his broad cheeks, and you swear you can almost see a dimple on one side, hidden by the grey of his five o'clock shadow. His nose appears larger than his brother’s- it’s a bit rounder, with a subtle skewed bump on the bridge that makes you wonder if it’d once been broken. His face in general is rounder compared to the other man’s, the square structure of his jaw and his cheeks softened by a subtle plumpness that, in your opinion, makes the smile all the more pleasing to look at.

The other brother places some crumpled bills on the counter, forcing you to pull your gaze away. You count them, give him proper change, drop the items into a thin plastic bag, and hold it out for him to take.

“Well,” you start, already disappointed to have the most interesting thing that’s happened to you in months about to walk out the door, “it was nice to meet you both.”

“I’m Stan,” the stocky one interjects, “and that’s Ford. Like he said, we’ll be here for a bit. So, uh, we might see ya around.”

This time you can’t help the spread of an enthusiastic smile across your face. You give them your name in return.

“If you need anything, you know where to find me on weekdays between the hours of nine to five.”

The one named Ford opens his mouth to speak, but Stan cuts him off.

“And if we need anything after hours?”

A jolt of excitement runs through you at the second mildly-flirtatious quip. Two? In one day? You feel out of your depth- it’s been some time since you’ve had a customer whose banter wasn’t the conversational equivalent of watching paint dry.

“I’m only available after hours to repeat customers,” you quip back.

“Then you better get me a punch card, ‘cus I’m sure I- er, we’ll be seein’ you again before long.”

That draws a giggle out of you. For the smallest possible fraction of a second you think you see his eyes flit down to your mouth as the sound leaves your lips; you discount the thought just as quickly as it comes.

“I’ll have one ready for you next time.”

An ardent smile stays on your face as you toss their unclaimed receipt to a bin under the counter. You don’t see Stan looking back as he exits behind his brother, but he catches your lingering smile, and he stands up even straighter as he passes through the door.

The last bit of work goes by much quicker after that. You replay the conversation with the one named Stan over and over in your mind- it’s practically the highlight of your year so far. You’re already cradling hope that you’ll see him again.

You don’t have any intentions other than the desire for continued repartee, of course. You’re just interested in receiving more alleviation from your chronic boredom. Though you have to admit the thought of running into him outside of work certainly doesn’t displease you. Hell, that man made you giggle. You can’t remember the last time you giggled.

For once, quitting time sneaks up on you. As soon as the cuckoo clock coughs up five chimes you take your mug, fill it with hot water from the kettle Nick keeps in the storeroom, pluck a tea bag from your coat, steep it, and leave without a single word, steps bouncing against the worn carpet as you go.

You sip on your walk back. It’s sixty degrees now, veritably tropical compared to the weather you’ve endured until recently. The brothers continue to invade your thoughts as a warmer wind whisks away the steam of your beverage, brushing against your lips as it goes. You’re a little embarrassed by the depth of your interest after such a short interaction, but can you really blame yourself? This place has given you so little over the last nine months. Any level of excitement is a desperately needed stimulation.

You barely register the sound of chittering above you as you keep your eyes on the fractured pavement that leads you home while you conjure up the image of his grin one more time.

Your RV waits for you on the far end of the gravel desert, loyal and reliable, which it better be considering all the money you’ve put into it. Jacks on each corner of your trailer come down to rest on worn blocks of wood to keep it stable, a hasty job you did the night you arrived and haven’t bothered to improve since. The truck you use to haul it sits just inches away from the hitch at the end- even though it’s unhitched, you haven’t taken your truck anywhere since you settled here, a fact evident by the sinking of its tires into the gravel it rests on.

You finish your tea as you swing open the unlocked door of your immobile home. A bad habit, you know, but you have little in the way of valuables that could entice a would-be thief. The most expensive thing it holds is the toaster. Anyone desperate for cash would just take the whole damn trailer.

You shrug off your jacket, ready to perform a series of actions so routine as to be mechanical. You place your empty mug into the sink, give it a quick wash to prepare it for tomorrow. You toss a frozen dinner into the microwave and nuke it. You turn on the nine inch CRT TV resting in a nook above the left armrest of your stiff couch. The satellite picks up four channels, five on a good day, and your preferred option is the Oldies channel. You watch Andy Griffith and Barney Fife indulge in wacky small-town shenanigans as you try to ignore the lugubrious meal you’re shoving into your mouth. Once the mostly-edible mush is gone you pry yourself back off the couch and do a few basic stretches, as much as the cramped space will allow.

It’s time for your daily due.

You strip in front of the kitchen counter, not bothering to pull the curtains down over any of the windows. You already have all the privacy you need. You grab your swimsuit draped over the removable shower head in the bathroom and wriggle into it before grabbing your ratty beach towel and stepping back outside.

Sixty degrees is a lot chillier without a jacket. Or pants. But you’re used to this by now, for the most part. After the first gust of lakewind rips through you, giving you a round of goosebumps, you barely notice it.

The broadside of your RV faces east, and east is where the lake lives, a mere couple dozen yards from your front door. You cast your eyes out to the muted blue horizon; the water, drawn into a tidy line against the sky and spanning your entire field of view, stretches out of sight, billowing for hundreds of miles beyond the earth’s curve. The gravel on the ground presses uncomfortably against your bare soles for a few steps before you reach a strip of grass, which quickly gives way to rough sandy soil, which in turn gives way to a harshly-angled sand dune that you scramble down, onto a thin slice of proper beach, until finally, you meet the water. You do so casually after dropping your towel lazily on the sand, stepping forward into the frigid waters without hesitation.

You never get fully desensitized to the shock of cold water. You can acclimate, reduce its effects, but you’ll always have a reaction. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been doing it since you were young, or you’re incredibly fit, or have made it a daily habit. There will always be discomfort.

There’s a benefit to this: you can never forget how easily it can kill you.

You wade into the dull turquoise waves. They’ve calmed fully since the storm, now returned to their natural state, low and rolling. Once you’re waist deep you point your arms forward and jump into a swell, embracing the full-body frigidity. You resist your body’s reflex to tense every single muscle against the cold, rolling with the punch of pain that strikes every last inch of you. That’s the trick- you can’t fight the cold. You just have to accept it.

You hover under the surface for a few moments, letting the currents push and pull you gently before coming back up and freestyling your way further out into the water. You go just enough to keep the bottom of the lake within reach of your toes, should you need it, then change tracks to swim parallel to the beach.

You know better than to swim out too far. The few times you’ve ever gone a significant distance out here were by accident. Many people underestimate the seemingly placid state of the lake, but you’re well aware that you need to be very, very careful while you’re in these waters.

You’re alone, for one. No idle sunbathers line the shore, not a soul wanders the beach, and it’s not like you’ve told anyone you’re doing this. Cold takes its toll, tiring a swimmer more easily. As if that wasn’t difficult enough on its own, humans are less buoyant in fresh water, depriving you of the slight boon you’d get in a salty ocean and requiring more exertion to stay afloat. If you were to push yourself too hard, you’d risk a turn for the worst, and no one would be around to save you. To make matters worse, the water itself isn’t the only occupant on the list of hazards. You need to be wary of boats as well- your camp is only a quarter mile down the beach from the town’s marina. Even with its current sparse offseason population there’s always the chance some inattentive wannabe sailor could run you through even realizing it.

Worst of all, if anything were to happen, no one would ever find you. Bodies don’t wash up on the shores of these lakes. The water pulls them down and keeps them.

You stroke your way up and down until you feel yourself start to tire. As soon as you feel the hint of fatigue you immediately cut mid-stroke back to land, the lake’s swells gently helping you on your way. You emerge cold, tired, satisfied, and ready to spend the rest of your evening doing absolutely nothing.

The rest is pure routine: You rinse off your body and your swimsuit in your tiny closet of a shower, place the swimsuit around the showerhead so it’ll be ready for you again in another 23 hours. You put on a sweater and comfortable pants, grab a drink from the fridge, and settle into the couch to watch Golden Girls as you have every night for the last 266 days.

The brothers enter your thoughts once more. This time, it irritates you a little. Do you really have so little going on in your life that the brief appearance of two mildly-interesting customers at your job is enough to dominate your thoughts for the rest of the night? The answer to this question is, obviously, yes. 

You accidentally tilt the can too much as you raise it to your lips, a small stream dribbling down your chin and landing on your chest. You can’t even be bothered to wipe it away. As you watch the liquid settle into your cableknit, spreading like a bleeding wound, the voice of Sophia comes from your tiny, fuzzy TV screen, saying: