Listen to all of you, he said. All the chewing and swallowing.

None of the sounds stopped or even paused. We’re eating, his mother finally said.

Jennifer took a bite of her sandwich and then gummed and smacked it as loudly as she could. She was smiling, watching him. She opened her mouth to show him the chewed-up mush.

Galen looked down at his deviled egg. The white a kind of cup for a bright yellow whip of goo, sprinkled with paprika. He sniffed it, and his stomach lurched. It had the smell of barnyard, and he was having to listen to the animals all around him.

Animals, he said. You sound like a bunch of animals.

Galen, his grandmother said.

Sorry. Galen climbed down and walked into the center of the clearing. He found a stick and dug a small hole, nestled the deviled egg inside, and covered it with earth. Grow, he said. Grow more deviled eggs.

He stretched his arms and tried to feel this open meadow and cool air, this familiar space. He gave a little yelp to see if there’d be an echo, but nothing came back. He could still hear their chewing, even from thirty feet away.

I’m going to the creek, he said. He tromped down through the small trees at the side of the cabin, grabbed his lance from the tree at the spigot, and soon stood at the bank where he had stood every year. Slim shadows flitting away under rocks and overhangs. The trout.

Hard to tell how the trout knew his intentions, but they knew. Whenever he appeared, they were in the wide, shallow section, in less than a foot of clear water over a mottled bed of stones orange, green, dark blue, and brown. A kind of camouflage, but the trout knew. They knew the camouflage wasn’t good enough and they instantly disappeared into the faster water, narrow chutes of white between larger stones and deadfall. Hidden pockets, caves and ledges. Places Galen couldn’t see or reach.

For years, Galen had tried with various temptations: salmon eggs, bacon, corn, lures, and flies. He’d never caught a single fish. But this year was going to be different. This year he had brought the lance. He didn’t have a spear point, so he’d duct-taped a ring of nails on the end, a dozen small stabbers. And he was going to sneak up on them from downstream, so they wouldn’t smell him.

Through the trees, a larger pool that was a little deeper, almost two feet. This would be his entry point. He approached the pool carefully, but as soon as he was at the bank, the little shadows took off.

Run for your lives, he said. Papa’s coming in this time.

He stripped at the bank and stepped in with one foot, then stepped quickly out. Holy shit, he said. The water was unbelievably cold. But he stepped in again, both feet, his ankles already in a dull ache, and went down on his hands and knees.

Oh, he said. Oh this is cold. But he eased forward, slipping his belly and chest in, and went under. His arms waving frantically underwater, the lance dropped. Trying to warm up, kicking his thighs in place, treading with his arms, banging his knees and feet and elbows on the stones as he thrashed. Nowhere to go in this small pool, but he had to warm up, had to move. He opened his eyes and they stung in the cold. He could feel the exact shape of his eyeballs, hard little lumps freezing in their sockets. He needed a mask and snorkel. He had to come up for air, and then he submerged again, smooth stones a few inches from his face, dappled light making a confusion of color. Everything suddenly larger, magnified.

A different world underwater. Galen’s hands giant, his skin a tight sack holding his vital mush, his precious bit of warmth. He was a planet moving in a cold, weightless vacuum. Airless, impersonal, with a different relation to light. A thin membrane all that was keeping him alive.

He picked up the lance, heard it scrape against rock, sound magnified. Life on land a lesser life, everything muted, made small and dull. He looked around at stone and sand, root and dark earth along the bank, all of it expanded and luminous. The sunlight shifting and rippling, washing over in bands.

He had to come up again for air, his chest tight, and then he submerged and tried to relax, use less oxygen. The trout were all around him. If he could calm enough, he would feel their movement. Trout brothers, he thought. I am here with you now.

Chapter 9

They were all in rocking chairs on the front deck.

He’s a chameleon, Jennifer said. He’s all white now. What happened to the red?

What did you do? his mother asked.

Fishing, he said, but his voice came out hollow and shaky. His teeth were chattering. He was careful up the porch steps, set his lance beside the door. He felt bony.

I guess we’ll be feasting on trout tonight, then, his aunt said, and Jennifer laughed.

Today was just to figure out where they’re at, Galen said.

They’re in the creek.

Stop, his mother said.

That’s okay, Galen said. I saw the creek today in a way you’ve never seen it, Helen. You have no idea what the creek is.

I’ve only been coming here my whole life.

That’s the problem. Your whole life you’ve been only half waking.

Honestly, she said. What are you going to do when you have to go out into the real world?

The way you’ve done? Don’t you live in a crap apartment paid for by Grandma? He was still having trouble getting the words out, his chest hollow. He really needed to warm up. I’m taking a bath, he said.

You’ll have to turn on the water heater, his mother said. Takes about twenty minutes to warm up.

Fuck, he said. I’m really cold.

Galen, his grandmother said.

Sorry.

Are we leaving today? his grandmother asked. She looked suddenly worried.

No, Mom, Galen’s mother said. We just got here. We have plenty of time.

Oh, she said, and settled back in her chair. I hate it when I can’t remember.

Galen stepped inside and ran into the hide-a-bed. Can’t you wait and put out the bed at night? he yelled.

You entitled little shit, his aunt yelled back.

Helen. It was a chorus from his mother and grandmother.

Galen climbed over the bed. In the bathroom, he flicked the switch for the water heater, closed the door and slumped against it and felt so sad suddenly. He’d never fought with his aunt, never in his life. The best of his early memories were with her, in fact. An inflatable pool on his grandparents’ lawn, and she ran around the edge of it dragging him by the arms, making a whirlpool. Her laughter then always generous and real. He didn’t know what had happened. Some mistake, something that shifted the wrong way in the last couple days. She’d made comments before, but he’d thought they were just in fun.

Galen didn’t understand how lives were supposed to overlap. He had brought each of these people into this incarnation to teach him a specific lesson. But if his aunt had a spirit or a soul, too, then she had her own lessons to learn, and how did all of this line up? How could it be synchronized?

Maybe a person could be put on pause. His aunt still angry about her childhood. She hadn’t realized yet that memory was only an illusion. Maybe you could remain stuck forever if you refused to learn a particular lesson. But she hadn’t seemed angry before. Maybe it was Jennifer growing older. Maybe that was the difference. She was fighting for Jennifer now. In his earliest memories of his aunt, Jennifer didn’t yet exist.

Galen’s T-shirt and shorts were damp. He hadn’t had a towel at the creek. His skin rough with goose bumps, shivering.

His grandmother, unable to remember anything, was definitely on pause. Someone taking a break from the game. Then there was the big question of what the game was even about. Why were we all trying to learn lessons? Galen knew it was so we’d finally be without attachment, but why did attachment ever have to exist in the first place?