“Not so luckily, Paps and Major were waiting for us on the dock,” Nalle said. “And back at the house, we got our fish warm.”

“Paps fried our fish,” Little said. “Even Trudy.”

“Deep-fried,” Minor elaborated. “Twenty smacks each.”

“Liar,” Kennet said. “You all got twenty between you.”

“Kennet got a million,” Trudy said.

Astrid raised eyebrows. “That must’ve taken some time.”

“Paps made us sit and wait in the kitchen, and we had to listen.”

“And count,” Nalle said quietly. “It was a bad night.”

Kennet looked at him, then nudged a little into Nalle’s side. “Worse than the night you ate the one rotten clam at the bake and upchucked until dawn?”

Nalle laughed. “Now that was bad.”

But not as bad as the night Ma died, Kennet thought, nudging Nalle again and then holding still against his tall frame. You cried until dawn and didn’t speak for a good two weeks. Poor Paps, cut down on one side with grief, cut up on the other from worrying about you. Little bear-brother, you are the authority on bad nights…

Astrid was looking at him. A shivering rash of goosebumps swept up his arms.

“When I was in primary school,” she said, “a friend and I loosened the caps on all the inkwells in the classroom. The teacher made every single pupil kneel holding all their books, until the culprit confessed.”

“Did you?” Nalle asked.

“Yes, and my friend, excuse me, my former friend played dumb. I got paddled in the principal’s office. Then I had to scrub the classroom floor. Then I got walloped again when I got home.”

Nalle patted her shoulder. “Bad night.”

“Warm fish.”

Now raindrops began to fall on Kennet’s arms.

“Here she comes,” Minor said, scrambling to his feet.

The fist of clouds over Wolfe Island had clenched tight, squeezing out a blanket of rain. They could see the curtain of it coming down the river. They stashed the gear beneath some pine trees and made a dash for the footbridge to Tre Fiskar, heading toward Major’s house.

“Will he mind?” Astrid said, running alongside Kennet.

“Of course not.” He took her hand. “Every rule has its exception.”

As guarded as they were of their privacy, Major and Johnny were generous men. The young people were soon situated on the little front porch of Tre Fiskar, with thick towels and five-cent Cokes. There they weathered the storm, telling hilarious stories of not-so-finest moments.

Kennet and Astrid shared the porch swing, holding hands. Kennet was consumed with pure happiness, edged with another emotion that took some time to pin down. It was paternal. Or maybe dynastic. An abstract feeling, yet precise. His uncle’s house unfolded into the concept of a home Kennet might own one day. Astrid morphed into a wife. His siblings chewed on the idea of children. And these would be the stories they’d tell together.