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that his T-shirt has Lake of the Woods embroidered above the pocket. But I tell myself he’s probably just somebody who helps with luggage. And then we’ll go on our separate ways. Never to see each other again. Thank God.
    “Nice to meet you, Chelsea,” he says, the pitch of his voice deliciously low—like the dark filling of a chocolate truffle candy. He smiles at me with this look … like we’re only at the beginning. Like the game clock has only just kicked into gear and four full quarters of action lie ahead.
    “Clint’s going to work with you over vacation,” Dad says.
    “What do you mean, work ?” I ask.
    “He runs a boot camp here at the resort,” Dad says. “I set it up for you yesterday. Your own personal trainer.”
    I actually start to feel a warmth break out under my rib cage. And just as I begin to realize that the warmth is actually hope —hope that Dad might actually be doing something thoughtful, that he might be giving me something I’d enjoy, like we were still the old friends we used to be before the accident—he says, “We spent a lot of money on this graduation gift of yours. I didn’t want you to have to waste it sitting on a cabin porch.”
    As if I’m the kind of person who always wastes the opportunities that come my way. Like I’m someone who has good things land in my lap all the time, and I’m not gentle enough or thoughtful enough or careful enough to protect those things. He says it as if I squandered basketball, even. The warmth of hope instantly turns to the burn of anger.
    Dad accepts the keys that Earl jingles. “Cabin number four,” he mumbles, staring at the key chain.
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    It’s my fault. I get it—I wasted everything. I screwed up college, even. Destroyed any hope for a full-ride scholarship. And it’s obvious that Dad’s never going to forgive me. In that moment, my hip is an open wound he’s just emptied an entire salt shaker into. Clint smiles at me, saying, “You’d never know you got hurt.”
    That just goes to prove, right there, how little this guy really knows. Clint
    body checking
    Oneofthesedays,I’mgoingtocomeoutwithyou,”Kenziepromises. At first I think “one of these days” means “today,” but instead of climbing aboard, she stays on the dock and picks up a fistful of fishing poles.
    “Don’t know why you haven’t yet,” I say, in the same tone I’d use talking to Greg or Todd. Friendly, open. Not like I have to have her out with us. Not like I’m pining. Or foaming at the mouth, like Todd. Sure, you can come out with us. But the world won’t end if you don’t. I lean over the edge of the boat to accept the poles, then carry them beneath the cover that shades the passengers’ seats on the Lake of the Woods launch—one of the twenty-five-foot motorboats that Greg, Todd, and I use to take out ten or so vacationers at a time. We could fit in as many as fifteen, but Earl likes to keep the groups a little smaller than that. And it’s such a great gig, none of us would ever think about testing Earl’s rules.
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    “Sure do bring a lot with you,” Kenzie observes as I motion for her to hand me my boxes of tackle, too. I learned on day one that it’s best to bring the just-in-cases—because there’s always at least one weekend fisherman every trip who realizes, halfway out into the lake, that he’s accidentally left something behind in his cabin. Or there’s always a couple of tourists, usually women, who swear they hadn’t intended to fish, but now that they’re here, and it’s such a beautiful day, and pretty please, any way we can fish, too?
    Once I’ve placed all my stuff in the boat, I climb back out onto the dock. I’ve learned, too, that it seems more welcoming this way—if I’m waiting on the dock, vacationers assume there’s still space for them on the boat. And this morning, I want to get as many onboard as I possibly can.
    I glance over at Kenzie. She’s smiling at me, one of those all-knowing