Chapter Six: Intiation

2045:

 I woke up to a surprising lack of soreness, though the weight of the journey ahead still sat heavily on my mind. Sleep had come in fragments—moments of rest punctuated by frequent wakings—but it was enough to keep me going. In the dimness, I heard Grandpa stirring, his quiet movements rustling through the camp. He was up before the sun, just as I expected. 

 I stayed still, my eyes shut against the inevitable, clinging to the last moments of warmth inside my sleeping bag. The temptation to stay cocooned was strong, but I knew I couldn't delay forever. At least we had been diligent in keeping the mosquitoes out—no buzzing, no bites, just the quiet hum of the wilderness. A soft glow of sunlight crept through the fabric of the tent, hinting at morning, but without a clock, time felt irrelevant.

 After a groggy stop at the latrine—an experience as pungent as one could hope for in terms of an eye-opening wake-up call—I trudged back toward camp. Still wrapped in last night's hoodie and sweatpants, I found Grandpa busy at the small stove, flipping pancakes with practiced ease. The familiar, simple rhythm of his cooking was oddly comforting. 

 Without a word, he handed me a plate, as if sensing the quiet melancholy lingering in my posture. 

 "How was your first night out in the woods?" he asked, pouring a steaming cup of instant coffee, the earthy scent mingling with the crisp morning air. 

 "Oh, about as good as one can expect when sleeping on rocks and tree roots," I replied, attempting a weak jest. He chuckled, shaking his head. 

 "We don't have syrup—so I tossed in some dried fruit from the trail mix. You can add nuts if you want. No butter either, just cooking oil. Once we hit the trails, we'll keep an eye out for fresh berries." 

 "The dried fruit's fine," I said, taking a bite. The pancake was a little dry, but in moments like these, you don't get to be picky. 

 Grandpa took a slow sip of his coffee. "You want some? Or something to drink?" 

 I shook my head. 

 As I chewed, I let my gaze drift to the lake. Wisps of fog curled over the water's surface, weaving between the trees in a silent, ghostly waltz. Birds flitted about, their songs layering over the distant rustling of unseen forest creatures. The rhythmic lap of the lake against the rocks mixed with the eerie, echoing call of a loon, carrying across the morning air like a solemn hymn. 

 Nature was wide awake now, composing its own perfect symphony.

"Did you bring your swimsuit?" Grandpa asked suddenly, his tone far too casual to be innocent. 

 I shot him a wary glance, my expression practically asking, *Where are we going with this?* "I did… but I'm almost afraid to ask why you want to know." 

 He smirked, as if he had been waiting for this moment. "Well, we have a little tradition in the family. A sort of initiation ceremony." He leaned back slightly, savoring the reveal. "Since this is your first time out here, you wouldn't have known, but after someone completes their first full day, they mark the occasion with a swim." 

 I raised an eyebrow. "A swim?" 

 "Yep. Call it a baptism, a cleansing, whatever suits you," he continued matter-of-factly. "It's just a ridiculous little ritual we've been doing for years. No idea who started it, but now it's a thing." 

 I blinked at him, caught off guard. "Okay… how long do I have to stay in the water for this to be achieved?" 

 "Oh, just long enough to get your whole body wet. Best approach is to jump in and come right back out—unless, of course, you *want* to stay in longer." His eyes twinkled with amusement, as if he already knew how this was going to go. 

 I hesitated, narrowing my eyes. "Just once this trip, and we're done?" 

 "Just the once." He grinned, far too pleased with himself. 

 I sighed, crossing my arms. "Hell's bells, do I actually have a choice here, or will I be forever branded as the family disappointment if I refuse?" 

 "Oh, we all have choices," He said, as his arms went wide as if to say his hands are clean, and no responsibility for my decision, "No pressure at all." 

 His smug grin told me otherwise.

 "My great-grandfather did this with his son, and his son eventually did this with his son, and so on," Grandpa said, leaning back with a satisfied nod. "I took your father on a trip just like they did before me. I was hoping to take *his* son, but, well… you'll do." He shot me a teasing look. 

 I scoffed, not missing a beat. "Grandma always said you were a nice man, but I guess *you'll do* too." I returned his look with equal mischief. 

 "Good to know." 

 I rolled my eyes. "When I'm in that freezing water, shivering and questioning all my life choices, I'll be comforted by your *overwhelming* love and concern." 

 "Good to know." His smirk deepened, his humor aged like a fine vintage—classic, dry, and just a little too satisfying for him. 

 I exhaled dramatically. "Fine, I'll do it. I'll do it knowing that the judging eyes of the Lord will be watching over me… *and you.*" I aimed my words like a well-crafted guilt trip, proud of my effort. 

 "Good to know." 

 Damn. *That* line again. No matter what I threw at him, that was his comeback, served with a fresh dose of smugness. I could have fired off a thousand witty remarks, and that would still be his only reply. 

 Oh, *Hell's bells,* I thought to myself as he sipped his coffee, completely unfazed. How did he always get the best of me with that stupid line?

 "You'll want a fresh pair of clothes ready for when you get out. I'll have a towel for you," Grandpa called after me as I trudged back to the tent to change. 

 I kept waiting, hoping—*praying*—that at any moment he'd crack a grin and say, *Just kidding.* But deep down, I knew no last-minute pardon was coming. The governor wasn't calling. This was happening. 

 With a resigned sigh, I pulled on my simple black two-piece swimsuit and made my way to the water's edge, right where we had beached the canoe. Yesterday, I had marveled at how stunningly blue the lake was, a serene and inviting paradise. This morning, all I saw was a merciless, icy abyss. 

 I dipped a toe in, barely breaking the surface, and yanked it back as if the water had teeth. *Hell's bells, that's cold.* 

 From the camp, Grandpa was tidying up, but I could feel his gaze flicking toward me, keeping tabs on my progress—or lack thereof. 

 "Don't worry, the sharks are usually asleep at this hour!" he called out, far too amused with himself. 

 "Not funny, Grandpa!" I shot back, though my irritation was quickly morphing into something else. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe defiance. Or maybe, just maybe, a spark of challenge. 

 If he thought I was going to tiptoe my way into this, he had another thing coming. 

 I took a few steps back, inhaled sharply, and *sprinted* forward with everything I had. The moment my feet left the ground, I knew there was no turning back. I plunged headfirst into the lake, the icy water swallowing me whole. 

 The cold didn't just touch me—it *seized* me.

 Grandpa clapped and whistled in approval, clearly enjoying the show. I fought the urge to smile—no way was I giving him that satisfaction. 

 The water was only a little over waist-deep, shallow enough to stand, but I chose instead to wade backward, keeping just my head above the surface. The lake bottom was a patchwork of rock and mud, an uneven texture beneath my feet. 

 "Always said you were a natural fish," Grandpa called out, his voice carrying easily over the still water. 

 Sensing the playful jab, I mustered up some cold sarcasm through my slightly chattering lips. "Thanks, Grandpa. *So* helpful." 

 Since I was already in, I figured I might as well make the most of it. I swam a few strokes, letting the chill numb away any lingering resistance, then stood up to splash water over my arms, scrubbing off the previous day's grime. It was actually… refreshing. Not nearly as bad as all the dramatics had made it seem. 

 Tilting my head back, I dipped my hair beneath the surface, then ran my fingers through the wet strands as I slowly lifted it out of the water. One more full-body dunk for good measure, and I decided I was done. 

 "You can come out now," Grandpa called. "Can't have you catching a cold." 

 I was making my way toward shore, the water streaming off me in rivulets, when I noticed something—small black blobs clinging to my legs. My first thought was mud, maybe some lake debris. 

 But Grandpa had spotted them too. He took a few steps closer, towel in hand, his amused expression shifting ever so slightly. 

 Oh no. 

 I followed his gaze down to my legs. 

 Something wasn't right.

 "Don't move—just *wait there*," Grandpa called, already jogging toward the canoe where his fishing gear was stashed. His sudden urgency made my skin crawl even more. 

 I glanced down again at the black blobs clinging to my legs. Were they… moving? 

 Instinctively, I started to lean down for a closer look, but Grandpa's sharp voice cut through the air. 

 "*Don't touch them!* I'm going to put them in a container." 

 *Them?* 

 A cold, creeping chill slithered up my spine. 

 "What do you mean, *them*? What are they?" My voice was climbing toward panic. "Get them *off*!" 

 Every nerve in my body screamed at me to start swatting, slapping—*anything* to get these things off me. But before I could, Grandpa was already at my side, holding out a small container filled with lake water. With methodical precision, he started brushing the blobs off my skin, plucking them from my legs, my back, even my swimsuit. 

 I stood frozen, stomach twisting in disgust, as he collected them one by one. 

 Only when he seemed satisfied did I dare to move again. 

 He turned the container in his hands, examining his grim little prize, then casually dumped the new arrivals into a larger jar already brimming with more of them. 

 "They're baby leeches," he announced cheerfully. "We can use them for fish bait." 

 A wide grin spread across his face, the kind of grin reserved for someone who had just stumbled upon an unexpected gold mine. Meanwhile, I was actively fighting the urge to vomit. 

 "Oh, *I'm* so glad my suffering is working out so well for you," I deadpanned. 

 "Yes, isn't it *great*?" 

 That was it. That was the last straw. 

 I started hopping in place, my entire body recoiling in a full-blown case of the heebie-jeebies. 

 "Ew, *ew, ew, ew!*" I shrieked, flailing like my very soul had been contaminated. 

 Grandpa chuckled, entirely unfazed. 

 But I was *done.* I bolted for the tent, desperate to check every inch of my body, convinced those slimy little horrors were still lurking somewhere on me.

 Grandpa's voice carried through the thin walls of the tent. 

 "Make sure to dry your feet *especially* well and change your socks daily. Wet feet soften the skin and can crack. Cuts and cracks not only make walking uncomfortable, but they can also increase the chance of infection." He paused, then added with a touch of humor, "And that concludes your daily dose of doctor talk." 

 I wanted to throw back a sarcastic *Good to know*, but I was still too busy scanning every inch of my skin, ensuring I was finally free of any lingering parasitic nightmares. 

 Once satisfied that I was officially *leech-free*, I emerged from the tent, the fresh morning air cool against my still-damp skin. The sun had climbed higher, burning off the mist, and I realized I had no idea what the game plan for the day was. 

 Grandpa, already one step ahead as always, greeted me with a simple question. 

 "You up for some fishing?" 

 I glanced over and saw the canoe fully stocked with fishing gear. He already had his life jacket on and was holding mine out toward me. It wasn't like I had a packed schedule to consider. 

 "Sure." I grabbed the life jacket and hopped into the front of the canoe. 

 For the first time, the middle of the canoe was empty—no towering packs, no awkward weight shifting. I was already in the front, paddle at the ready. Grandpa waded ankle-deep into the water before carefully stepping inside the canoe, then used his paddle to push us smoothly away from shore. 

 We hugged the shoreline as we paddled, the canoe gliding effortlessly now that we weren't weighed down. It was almost… *enjoyable*. The water rippled gently with each stroke, the rhythm becoming second nature. We had no rush in our journey. 

 Across the lake, a few other paddlers were visible in the distance, but they were only passing through. Out here, people seemed to prefer keeping to themselves—a quiet understanding among those who sought the solitude of the wilderness.

 Grandpa did most of the paddling, steering us with quiet purpose. I let him take the lead, not entirely sure where he was heading. The shoreline was thick with submerged vegetation, reeds swaying just beneath the water's glassy surface. According to Grandpa's map, the lake was only about five feet at its deepest point—just one shallow pocket amongst the boundless waterways. 

 Eventually, he found a calm, promising spot to drift. With practiced ease, he grabbed his tackle box and started threading a fake worm onto a fishing hook. Once satisfied, he reached forward, extending the pole toward me. 

 "I'm guessing you don't want to use live bait, so you can try your luck with that," he said. 

 "Thanks." I said, appreciating the gesture. 

 I took the pole, staring at it like I could will my limited fishing experience back into memory. I'd only done this a handful of times before, and it showed. Grandpa must have picked up on my hesitation because he gestured with his thumb, mimicking the press of a button. 

 "Oh, right," I muttered, remembering now. 

 Cocking the pole to the right side of the canoe, I pressed the release and cast my line. It wasn't exactly a thing of beauty, but I doubted the fish cared about style points. With a quick turn of the reel, I tightened the line and leaned back, getting comfortable. 

 A few moments passed in companionable silence before I spoke in a lower voice, as if not to disturb the water. 

 "What kind of fish do you think are out here?" 

 Grandpa, now focused on baiting his own hook with one of the leeches from our earlier *adventure*, responded with casual interest. 

"I looked into some of these lakes before we came out here. Should be Walleye, Smallmouth and Rock Bass, Yellow Perch, White Suckers." He paused, adjusting his line. "Lots of lake Trout to be found, and if we're lucky, we could even catch a Northern Pike." 

 I nodded, watching my line ripple slightly in the water, wondering what—if anything—might be lurking beneath the surface.

 "Are those mostly small fish?" I asked, having no real clue. I'd heard the names before, but if someone asked me to describe one, I'd be useless. 

 Grandpa, still focused on his line, responded absentmindedly. "Oh, they're mostly under ten pounds, maybe a foot or two long. Northern Pike can get bigger, though—fifteen pounds, sometimes more. Say, three feet long." 

 I froze for a second, my mind immediately picturing a *three-foot-long* fish lurking in the same water I had just thrown myself into. Rationally, I knew it wasn't a shark, but still—three feet was the length of my leg. I *really* didn't need that mental image haunting me. 

 We floated in place for a while, letting the canoe drift lazily with only the occasional paddle stroke to keep us from nudging against the shore. The usual chorus of lake creatures filled the air, birds chirping in the trees, insects buzzing along the reeds. Every so often, a hawk or an eagle soared overhead, scanning for an easy meal. *Better luck than we were having,* I thought. 

 With no bites at our current spot, Grandpa decided we'd try our luck elsewhere. We paddled across the lake toward a denser patch of reeds, passing a few campgrounds along the way. Some were occupied, campers moving about their sites, tending fires, or wading near the shore. We exchanged polite waves with a few of them, a silent acknowledgment of shared existence before both sides likely hoped never to cross paths again.

 Another fishing spot. More drifting. More waiting for a tug on the line. The lake stretched out around us, smooth as glass, except for the gentle ripples our canoe made as we floated along. Grandpa seemed content just letting me be, giving me a quiet morning to myself rather than worrying about catching anything serious. 

 I was getting too comfortable. My eyelids drooped, my head bobbed forward, and I jerked it back up—over and over, fighting a losing battle. Eventually, sleep won. 

 A sudden thrashing snapped me awake. Water splashed. Grandpa's reel whined as he pulled something in. 

 "What is it?" I mumbled, still groggy. 

 "Just a little Rock Bass," he said, lifting the wriggling fish from the water. The sunlight glinted off its slick, dark scales. "This one's going back to its mama. Now, if we catch a nice Walleye—or maybe a bigger cousin of this guy—we'll be eating real good tonight." 

 He worked the hook free with careful hands and slipped the fish back into the water. It darted off in a flash, disappearing beneath the surface. 

 We settled back into the slow rhythm of waiting. The lake was quiet again, save for the occasional call of a loon in the distance. Then, Grandpa spoke. 

 "Jordi, I just wanted to thank you for coming with me on this trip." He kept his eyes on the water as he turned his reel a few times. "The trips I used to take up here with my dad and grandpa... those are some of my best memories. I wanted to keep that tradition alive. And, well, you're my only grandkid, which makes you my only shot." 

 He let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. "I know this wasn't your first pick for a summer plan. I know you'd rather be with your friends than stuck out here with an old man." He paused for a moment, then added softly, "I just wanted to say thanks, is all." 

 Grandpa didn't let his tender side show very often. I glanced over at him, his eyes still on the water, and shrugged. 

 "No problem. I'm glad we're spending time together. Admittedly, not my first choice, but it's been fine. I'm sure my friends aren't doing anything fun—just, you know, hanging out with boys." 

 He snorted. "Those boys aren't nearly as fun as your grandpa. Your friends are probably bored out of their minds." 

 "Oh, for sure." I played along. "I mean, we've flirted with death out here. They probably didn't get that experience at the mall. Ice cream and pizza can't compete with the thrill of eating food from a pouch." 

 Grandpa caught on to my teasing and leaned into it. "And let's not forget the real tragedy—they're missing out on the possibility of leeches. The boys are the only bloodsuckers around the shopping malls." He chuckled to himself. "You know, I've got a whole container full of them. You could bring some to your next pool party." 

 "Oh, no doubt. That would instantly skyrocket my popularity at school." 

 We shared a laugh, the easy back-and-forth making the weight of the morning feel a little lighter. But then, after a quiet moment, Grandpa shifted gears again. His voice softened. 

 "In all seriousness, though… with everything your mom did, and now the possibility of switching schools—it hasn't been an easy couple of months for you." He hesitated, reeling in the line just a little. "Hopefully, by the time we get back, your dad will have figured some of it out." 

 The words hit me harder than I expected. I had been doing a pretty good job of ignoring all of that up here, letting the quiet and the water push it to the back of my mind. I wasn't ready to face it yet. 

I searched for a quick comeback, something to steer us back into lighter territory, but for once, I came up empty. 

 I'd been mad at my mom for months. Just hearing her mentioned sent a familiar anger bubbling up, one I struggled to push back down. And Dad… his uncertainty had become my uncertainty. The endless job applications, the house hunting, the not knowing—it had put our lives on hold. That anxiety sat heavy on my chest most nights, keeping me awake, making me feel more high-strung than usual. 

 "Yeah, it'd be nice to know where I'll actually be living," I said, trying to keep my voice even. "I can't exactly say it's been ideal. Still, thanks for letting me stay." I kept it surface-level, holding back the flood of emotions. I wasn't great at sharing real feelings—they felt too raw, too exposed. 

 Grandpa nodded, his eyes thoughtful but not prying. Instead, he steered the conversation back to safer waters. "Grandma and I have loved having you. And, I'll have you know, she has big plans for you when we get back—plans that involve a little more civilization." He exaggerated the word "civilization" with a dramatic flourish. "After playing Tarzan out here, I imagine a few days of being pampered will feel pretty good. Well… anything to get you two out of the house." He sniffed the air theatrically. "Plus, let's be honest, kid—you're starting to smell." 

 I shook my head, a smile breaking through despite everything. "Nice, Grandpa. Real nice. I'll be sure to tell Grandma exactly what you said. We'll see who ends up getting kicked out of the house first." 

 He let out a deep, belly laugh, and for a moment, the weight in my chest lifted just a little. 

 "We share the same sense of humor, Jordi, so I know you're a Haux—definitely my progeny. Could also be our matching mustaches." 

 I snapped my head toward him, shooting a dirty look. He just grinned. 

 "Things will work themselves out," he said, reeling in his line. "In the meantime, we'll have a good time out here—hopefully better than the fishing at the moment. What do you say we head back for some lunch?" 

I nodded in agreement. With the wind picking up, it was just in time.