Epilogue
JONAH
July in Idaho means sweat behind the knees, sunburned ear tips, and a lake that smells like every day of my childhood summers.
I’m standing in it, water up to my waist, tracking a nine-year-old as he swims, arms slicing clean, head turning for the breaths.
I taught him that. Or, more accurately, I bribed him into it with three week’s worth of ice cream sandwiches.
He’s in the zone. Laser focus. He doesn’t look back, just burns water.
He’s good at this.
But if he so much as sputters, I can make it to him in three strokes, maybe two if I ignore the shoulder. But I don’t think he’s noticed the distance. He’s busy.
Up on the dock, Zoe’s got her bare feet swinging over the edge, toenails neon, sunglasses stuck in her hair, and a book open on her lap.
She hasn’t turned a page in twenty minutes.
Every time she thinks nobody’s watching, she glances up, tracking us, the hint of a smile tipping the corner of her mouth.
She denies it, but she likes watching us.
I let my eyes hang on her, as usual. The sunlight’s chewing through the top of her tank, dusting her shoulders with gold. Her hair’s up, messy, and there’s a glint under her glasses—maybe sweat, maybe the lens, maybe both.
The air tastes like wood and pine needles, and the only thing on the schedule is “not moving unless you want to.”
The sun’s angled right on us, and sweat beads down my spine, but the water’s cool, so it’s all good.
Eli has a goal: the old orange buoy bobbing about twenty yards out, faded from a thousand summers, covered in the kind of algae nobody wants to think about.
It’s the historic finish line. Every bonehead in this town has tried to make it from dock to buoy and back—usually ending with a show-off belly flop or, in my case, a decade ago, a trip to urgent care after I cut my foot on a sharp rock.
He lifts his head. “You and I. Race to the buoy and back.”
“On what planet do you beat me in a race?”
He grins, evil. “I get a head start. Twenty seconds.”
I scoff.
“Five,” I counter, knowing full well he needs the twenty.
“Fifteen.”
“Ten, and I’ll tie a hand behind my back.”
He perks up. “Any hand?”
I twist my left arm behind and let my good arm stay free.
He does the cocky float, rolling in a circle. “Deal.”
Zoe sits up straight, legs swinging. “Hold on, you’re racing with your arm behind your back?” She sets the book down, now officially a prop. “Is this a competition or a bad idea?”
“I’m not using the bad arm, Zo. That’ll keep it safe.”
She rolls her eyes. “Man-boy logic.”
Eli positions himself like an Olympic starter, hands on the buoy, legs primed. He’s counting in his own head, lips moving, and I let him have it. At “go,” he launches, thrashing the first five strokes just to make a point.
I drift, keeping my left arm tucked, fighting the urge to chase early.
Zoe is full-on coaching from the sideline now, voice up. “Kick harder, Eli! Jonah’s old. You can wear him down!”
I’ll remember that.
Ten seconds tick. I explode after him.
First three lengths, I’m dragging wake, my reach stunted by the “hand behind back” rule and a shoulder that definitely doesn’t like this plan. Zoe was probably right.
He’s got a real lead. I’m not even pretending to catch up until we hit the halfway mark. Then I cut through the chop, water stinging my eyes, shoulder screaming. I suck it up, roll into the final twenty yards.
Eli’s flailing, head up, losing efficiency. Classic rookie mistake—went too hard early, empty tank at the finish.
I slide past him with a dolphin kick, tap the buoy, and wave.
Glorious.
Eli drifts up, spluttering. “Rigged!” he howls, gripping the buoy. “You broke the rules!”
“I said I’d use one arm. I did.”
“You dolphin-kicked. That’s illegal!”
“You didn’t call it before,” I say, water streaming down my face.
Zoe shrugs. “Those are the breaks, bud.”
Eli jumps up on the dock, then goes full cannonball with his legs, hosing the dock. Zoe shrieks, slaps at the spray, pretends to be insulted, but the grin is real.
We paddle in, dripping, and Zoe’s got towels ready—she always does. We collapse on the dock, three in a row, legs dangling off the edge. For a minute, the only sound is us gasping, catching breath, water lapping underfoot.
It’s heaven.
She hands out slices of watermelon—pre-cut, chilled from the fridge. Eli grabs the biggest, then slurps it so red juice stains his chin. “I have a pitch,” he says, face serious. “For Zoe Knows.”
Zoe’s all in. “Let’s hear it.”
“Idaho birds. Migration and stuff. Did you know the yellow warbler goes all the way to Costa Rica for winter?”
I blink. “How do you even—”
He barrels on. “I’ve been writing taglines for the segment, too. Like, ‘Catch these birds before they catch their flights—’ or ‘Yellow warblers: the original snowbirds—’”
Zoe’s dying. “These are incredible. Are you looking for a co-host?”
He shrugs mid-watermelon bite. “You can be the bird expert. I’ll do stats and fieldwork.”
I have to lean back just to process this.
Zoe points at me. “You in?”
“I’ll be an assistant,” I say. “But only if I get to eat the snacks.”
Eli nods, solemn. “Approved.”
We settle into low gear. Sun’s sinking, and the top of my shoulders tightens where the sunscreen’s not working so well. Zoe’s feet flick little rings into the water. Sometimes they touch mine under the surface, and I let them.
Small talk tumbles out—like Dickens Diner favorites. Zoe claims the biscuits are “life-changing,” Eli says the chicken tenders are “average but reliable,” and I argue for the pancakes, which are, no joke, the size of hubcaps.
I tell Zoe the news is less “soul-crushing” since Jerry took over at W2Beaver, then remind her of how much the town loves Zoe Knows. She blushes, but not really.
At some point, Eli leans into my side. No big moment, no announcement, no need to telegraph it. He’s just tired and warm and knows that I won’t move away.
I don’t.
The water’s turned gold, and as if on cue, Floyd and Fiona make an entrance—stadium worthy. Two flags of brown fur, arrowing out from the left cove. Except today they’ve got company.
Kits.
Tiny beavers, two of them, trailing after. Every tail-flick is chaos. One dives and comes up ten yards away. The others scramble over each other for a better spot near Floyd’s backside, maybe thinking he’ll produce a meal if they bug him enough.
I point them out.
Eli nearly falls off the dock. “Look at them! Did you see that? They’re—oh my God, did you see that?”
Zoe laughs. “I’m seeing it, bud. They are the cutest things I’ve ever seen.”
She’s not wrong. It’s like someone built a beaver out of two apricots and a marshmallow. They tumble and crash into the lily pads. Floyd keeps swimming like nothing’s happening, king of the lake. Fiona brings up the rear, ears flat, probably twenty percent more patient than any mother in Dickens.
Zoe’s hand lands on the dock, fingers brushing mine.
We watch the beavers and their babies.
Nobody’s talking, not really. Until Eli wants to know if beaver families always stick together. I tell him that sometimes they fight, but they work it out.
Not a perfect family that gets printed on a Christmas card, but the kind that actually holds.
Like us.