Page 112 of Mountain Daddy

Electric.

“I know you will.”

An hour later, we're in my car. Fishing gear in the trunk. Snacks packed by Lilly. Chleo strapped into a booster seat in the back, chattering excitedly about what kind of fish we might catch.

I drive carefully. Scanning for tails. For threats. Old habits don't die just because I'm playing dad for a day.

The lake sits hidden in the mountains. Accessible only by a dirt road most locals don't even know exists. I found it my second week in Fern Falls, marking it as a potential escape route if things went south.

Never imagined I'd be bringing my son here.

“Wow!” Chleo's face presses against the window as the lake comes into view. Crystal clear water. Surrounded by pines. Mountain peaks reflected on the surface like a mirror image.

I park near the shore. Pop the trunk. Start unloading gear.

“Have you ever fished before?” I ask him.

He shakes his head. Solemn. “Mama says fish are smelly.”

I laugh. Can't help it. “She's not wrong.”

I set up two chairs at the water's edge. Show him how to bait the hook. His face scrunches in disgust when I spear the worm, but he doesn't back down.

“Your turn,” I say, handing him a baited rod.

His small hands wrap around it. Uncertain. Determined.

“Like this?” he asks.

“Almost.” I kneel beside him. Guide his grip. “Hold it here. And here. That's it.”

I show him how to cast. His first attempt lands three feet away in the shallows. He looks disappointed.

“Not bad,” I tell him. “Try again. Harder this time.”

He frowns in concentration. Swings. The line arcs through the air, splashing down twenty feet out.

“I did it!” he shouts, bouncing on his toes.

“Good job.” Pride surges through me. Unexpected. Powerful. “Now we wait.”

We sit side by side. Rods held over still water. The sun climbs higher, warming the back of my neck. Birds call from the trees. Peaceful. Quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that comes before violence. Just... quiet.

“Are you hungry?” I ask after an hour passes without a bite.

He nods eagerly. I reach for the cooler Lilly packed. Sandwiches. Juice boxes. Cookies.

We eat, fishing rods propped against our chairs. Chleo gets crumbs all over his shirt. Takes huge bites that barely fit in his mouth.

“Slow down,” I tell him. “Food's not going anywhere.”

He grins, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk's. I hand him a napkin. He wipes his mouth with exaggerated care.

“Did you know,” he says between bites, “that T-Rex couldn't really roar? They probably sounded like birds.”

“I didn't know that.”

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