The thought made me uneasy, and I ran the towel over my hair again, trying to distract myself.
For as long as I could remember, anxiety had always gnawed at me. It shifted in intensity and shape—sometimes wrapping around me like a blanket, other times tightening around my temples like barbed wire. But it was always there. Unlike her. "Wait… who is 'her'?"
"You do know fish don’t just catch themselves, right?"
The kid’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. He pointed a stubby finger at a fishing rod lying beside me—one I hadn’t even noticed.
"Who are you?" I finally asked.
"You tell me," the boy laughed and tossed a pebble into the river.
I stared at the ripples fanning out across the still water and thought, What a little brat. I’m not telling him anything.
"Alright, if you’re done muttering to yourself like an old man, let’s go to the house. You need to get dressed," the kid ordered, marching toward a small wooden cabin nestled near the lake, half-hidden behind dry bushes and the same twisted trees that lined the opposite shore.
"What were you doing on the footbridge?" I crossed my arms.
"On the fishing platform," the boy corrected.
"What?"
"What I was doing on the fishing platform," the kid stressed pedantically. "It’s called a platform, not just a footbridge."
"What’s the damn difference?"
"Grandpa said fishing platforms are built for catching fish, but a footbridge just gets you to the other side. Can you cross this? No. So it’s a platform." The boy tapped his temple, either highlighting his own precocious wisdom or my glaring ignorance. "If it were a proper bridge, you could’ve crossed to the other side. But you can’t, can you?"
I didn’t argue. Silently, I trudged after him, trying to avoid sharp pebbles digging into my bare feet—no easy feat, since the path to the cabin was paved with jagged gravel.
As we approached the house, I heard a strange grating noise, like the sound of rusted scrap metal. Looking up, I saw a section of blue slate roofing that seemed determined to take flight with every gust of wind, only to grudgingly settle back into place – until the next attempt a minute later, when it would resume its loud, rhythmic knocking.
"Should've been fixed ages ago," the kid followed my gaze. "But Grandpa never has time."