I back away, reading the line once more and nodding to myself. She is a liar and an addict, and she’s too weak to change. I should know; I spent years thinking she could, and all it ever did was hurt.

My thoughts drift to Dad in a memory scented with fish, mud, and tears. He was my bulwark in the storm that was my mom, and as she worsened I clung to him.

I was ten and we’d been fishing all morning in our favorite cove. He was going back on the road the next day, and I knew that once he left, Mom would hide in her bedroom.

The sun had been out when we’d first arrived at our favorite spot—a lemon color that made the sky look like I’d colored it with my favorite yellow crayon. Later it hid behind clouds, taking the shine from everything and making goose bumps pop up on my skin.

Dad had thrown out a line. It plinked into the water, and tiny ripples bounced the bobber up and down.

I’d puffed out my chest, tried to feel brave. Can I go on the road with you? My heart beat so fast, but I kept my eyes on the water, reeled in my empty line, threw it back out, never looking at Dad while the bobber rode the waves. I sucked in my top lip and stood a little taller. I’m good company, you know. Maybe you can even teach me how to drive a truck so I can be a truck driver like you. I bit the inside of my cheek and tried to see him from the very corner of my eye, but he stared at the water, moving the fishing line back and forth. I gripped the rod so hard my hands turned numb. He wasn’t answering and I was smart enough to guess why. My foot stomped down hard, but in the water my boot just sank into the mushy bottom. Mom doesn’t need me around be—

Ho-ya! Dad yelled, and his bobber dipped underwater. He reeled in the line at the same time that he pulled hard on the rod. His big eyebrows looked like they’d climbed onto his forehead. He grunted and pulled harder on the rod, but whatever was on the end of his line pulled in the opposite direction strong enough to make the rod nearly bend in half.

I’d jumped up and down on my toes and clapped my hands until my palms tingled. Wow!

Claire! he called. Get the net! It’s a biggun!

Got it! I’d stuck the end of my own rod into some rocks and picked up the net, running over to Dad but also trying to be careful not to fall on the sharp rocks.

He looked at me over his shoulder, lifted one corner of his mouth, then turned back to the water.