It took asking, begging, even bribing John with promises of baked goods to convince him to drive us the thirty miles to the lake.

All day we watched the sand rise between our toes and the boats float out to the horizon. Jenny and I, we’d brought ham and cheese sandwiches, ate while sitting on top of a crate that probably used to be a place for fish before they were carted off to market. It still smelled like fish. It smelled like fish, but not in a way that would make you wrinkle your nose up. Nothing was rotting, it smelled like the work that was done around the fish. The fishermen’s muscles ticking their living off pound by pound as they pulled life from the sea to the land. We lathered each other in sunblock more to complete the aroma than for protection from the clouded sun.

After collecting rocks that reminded us of our dreams, we tossed them into the water, watching them skip, skim, and then sink down below the opaque surface of Lake Michigan. There was no talk of the trouble we’d be getting in for leaving home for the day.

When the clouds shifted and let the sun through, we smiled for John’s camera. Jenny’s hand touched my elbow, I heard the camera click and, right then, I knew I’d be fine.