distance. As she neared the far tip-up, she saw
the orange flag standing upright and felt a burst of elation.
“All right ,” she said to the dog. “We got something.” Jogging the
last little way, she dropped to her knees and worked at unhooking
her line. As soon as she felt it—how light the line was—her excitement died. “Well, shoot.” Something had grabbed the bait and split.
But then she saw how the monofilament line curled and realized
there was no sinker at the end, no weight at all. The dripping line
had snapped in two. She’d used monofilament on purpose; it had a
lot more give and cushioned the set of the hook so the fish’s mouth
wouldn’t tear.
“Wow, that was one strong fish.” And big. Walleye liked deep
water. So did pike. Lots of meat on those fish. “So maybe I should
use braided line,” she said to Mina, who only licked water from her
fingers . “And auger the holes a little wider if we’re going for the big
boys.”
Unclipping her knife, a stainless steel Leek, from a pants pocket,
she deployed the blade with a practiced flick of her thumb. In a very
small, dark closet of her mind, she wished she could show Tom and
Alex what she knew how to do now. But she always wished that.
You have to stop this. She used the Leek’s sharp point to pick out the
knot of ruined line, then dumped the tip-up into her primer pail. For
the past week, ever since Chris, she’d been thinking way too often
about Tom and Alex, much more than was good for her.
This is your home now, so just deal. She should think about things
she could actually do something about, like how to catch more and
bigger fish dreaming their slow winter dreams in deeper water under
the thinner, weaker ice of the shelf. More holes meant more time
keeping them clear with her axe, though. Crunching back toward
shore, she worried the problem. Grandpa Jack used rubber mats from
his old pick up for fish-hole covers. But finding a car might be tough.
Isaac and Hannah and a bunch of other kids were once Amish and
still kind of big into God. All the places they stayed were Amish, and
Amish didn’t use cars. But maybe regular carpet or cut-up rug?
“I should ask Jayden,” she said to Mina. “He’s like Tom. You know
. . . a fixer-upperer? Like, remember that old truck Tom and I . . .”
Stop. Clamping down on that memory, she thumbed away a
fast, stinging tear. She had to cut it out, this dumb looping back to
Tom and Alex, or her dad and Grandpa Jack. Her hand snuck to her
neck and found a length of leather cord from which dangled a small
wooden pendant. Hannah said the charm, some weird Amish or
German magic thing, would protect her from evil or sad thoughts. Ha. It was just an upside-down peace sign. Dumb. Like it did any
good for all the memories that kept slipping out of that dark closet.
The ones of Tom always led to Alex and vice versa. Each came to the
same end: with Tom, his face twisted in agony as the snow bloomed
a violent rose-red under his leg; and Alex, her hands painted with his
blood, screaming, You bastards, you bastards !
Good-luck charms? Ha. Her fingers fell from the leather cord. She was total bad-luck juju. It was her fault Tom got shot . Tom said he was
only trying to take care of his people and Alex saved me from the mountain
and now look, because of me, probably they’re both—
“Nooo.” She caught the moan with a cupped hand. Another fast tear
chased down her cheek. Now she wished she’d kept Alex’s whistle.
Dumb to give that away. A whistle was actually something you could use , not a stupid piece of wood with a dumb German doohickey. The
whistle was Alex, too. Just like the letter from her mom. Placing a palm
over her heart, Ellie felt the envelope crinkle in its Ziploc, folded in an
inner pocket. She hadn’t been able to stop Harlan from stealing Alex’s
parents. But I got your mom’s letter, Alex. I saved her for you.
As, perhaps, Alex and Tom might
the orange flag standing upright and felt a burst of elation.
“All right ,” she said to the dog. “We got something.” Jogging the
last little way, she dropped to her knees and worked at unhooking
her line. As soon as she felt it—how light the line was—her excitement died. “Well, shoot.” Something had grabbed the bait and split.
But then she saw how the monofilament line curled and realized
there was no sinker at the end, no weight at all. The dripping line
had snapped in two. She’d used monofilament on purpose; it had a
lot more give and cushioned the set of the hook so the fish’s mouth
wouldn’t tear.
“Wow, that was one strong fish.” And big. Walleye liked deep
water. So did pike. Lots of meat on those fish. “So maybe I should
use braided line,” she said to Mina, who only licked water from her
fingers . “And auger the holes a little wider if we’re going for the big
boys.”
Unclipping her knife, a stainless steel Leek, from a pants pocket,
she deployed the blade with a practiced flick of her thumb. In a very
small, dark closet of her mind, she wished she could show Tom and
Alex what she knew how to do now. But she always wished that.
You have to stop this. She used the Leek’s sharp point to pick out the
knot of ruined line, then dumped the tip-up into her primer pail. For
the past week, ever since Chris, she’d been thinking way too often
about Tom and Alex, much more than was good for her.
This is your home now, so just deal. She should think about things
she could actually do something about, like how to catch more and
bigger fish dreaming their slow winter dreams in deeper water under
the thinner, weaker ice of the shelf. More holes meant more time
keeping them clear with her axe, though. Crunching back toward
shore, she worried the problem. Grandpa Jack used rubber mats from
his old pick up for fish-hole covers. But finding a car might be tough.
Isaac and Hannah and a bunch of other kids were once Amish and
still kind of big into God. All the places they stayed were Amish, and
Amish didn’t use cars. But maybe regular carpet or cut-up rug?
“I should ask Jayden,” she said to Mina. “He’s like Tom. You know
. . . a fixer-upperer? Like, remember that old truck Tom and I . . .”
Stop. Clamping down on that memory, she thumbed away a
fast, stinging tear. She had to cut it out, this dumb looping back to
Tom and Alex, or her dad and Grandpa Jack. Her hand snuck to her
neck and found a length of leather cord from which dangled a small
wooden pendant. Hannah said the charm, some weird Amish or
German magic thing, would protect her from evil or sad thoughts. Ha. It was just an upside-down peace sign. Dumb. Like it did any
good for all the memories that kept slipping out of that dark closet.
The ones of Tom always led to Alex and vice versa. Each came to the
same end: with Tom, his face twisted in agony as the snow bloomed
a violent rose-red under his leg; and Alex, her hands painted with his
blood, screaming, You bastards, you bastards !
Good-luck charms? Ha. Her fingers fell from the leather cord. She was total bad-luck juju. It was her fault Tom got shot . Tom said he was
only trying to take care of his people and Alex saved me from the mountain
and now look, because of me, probably they’re both—
“Nooo.” She caught the moan with a cupped hand. Another fast tear
chased down her cheek. Now she wished she’d kept Alex’s whistle.
Dumb to give that away. A whistle was actually something you could use , not a stupid piece of wood with a dumb German doohickey. The
whistle was Alex, too. Just like the letter from her mom. Placing a palm
over her heart, Ellie felt the envelope crinkle in its Ziploc, folded in an
inner pocket. She hadn’t been able to stop Harlan from stealing Alex’s
parents. But I got your mom’s letter, Alex. I saved her for you.
As, perhaps, Alex and Tom might
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