"Oh yeah? If you're so smart, why don't you fix it yourself!" the kid snapped.
"Like I've got nothing better to do," I shot back, feeling a wave of irritation rising. "And don't get your panties in a twist—it's not like I'm thrilled to be here either."
"Then get lost already! Who's stopping you?" the kid yelled before stomping off loudly into what I assumed was the bedroom.
Muffled curses and childish grumbling drifted out. I think he called me a "dumbass."
Rubbing my sore eyes, I stormed out of the house, shoving what little conscience I had left deep down my throat.
* * *
I was dead set on leaving that wretched little house and the godforsaken lake I’d somehow ended up in.
That insufferable brat. I didn’t sign up to be a babysitter, and I’ve never liked kids anyway.
My goal was to find a bus stop—hopefully one serviced by some rickety local route that could get me out of here. I paused, scanning the surroundings. My gaze lingered on a hill rising in the distance. It wasn’t exactly close; by my estimate, a thirty-minute trek. I wondered what lay beyond it. My mind immediately began painting possibilities. When you don’t know the truth, imagination fills the void with increasingly wild backdrops: maybe a silk factory, or a secluded village, or vast sheep pastures. Or maybe—a bigger lake.
It reminded me of my talisman painting, the one I’d bought with my last savings as a nineteen-year-old dreamer backpacking through Asia, searching for some sacred sign that my chosen path was the right one. I’d tried odd jobs that promised prestige and societal respect, but they only left me with a crushing, perpetual boredom—an urge to flee. Two years (maybe more) of that, and I’d started to think something was wrong with me. Friends and family advised dialing down the "fiery passion" and facing reality: Be like everyone else.
And so, driven half-mad by such advice, I embarked on my first solo journey with what little money I'd scraped together. I remember passing a street artist selling batik paintings. Among the vibrant array of works, one caught my eye—an orange sunset with a single boat moored near a shore where a lone palm tree stood (as solitary as the empty vessel itself). I stood transfixed, drinking in the riot of orange hues and the philosophy of tropical evenings. Without hesitation, I bought it.