There was a peculiar smell about the place. The walls were wooden but sealed with some glaring, shining coating. The furnishings had a look of bloat, with scarcely a pathway through. On the convertible sofa—our bed—lay a large quilt in chipper imitation of an antique, as though the past was a simpleminded child to pat on the head. The fabric felt stiff, resistant—like it might melt if put to flame.

We woke late but not a sound came from behind their door, so I cooked some eggs we ate from paper plates on our legs on the deck. The other cabins were closer than they’d looked in the dark. On an adjacent deck, a small boy dropped dry, bright cereal bits into the gape of his drawstring trousers. His mouth was open as if to cry, but no sound came.

We stuffed our totes and climbed a sandy path to the main road—a two-lane highway loud with trucks. Other people walked with foam noodles and dull towels that limped along the ground. We fell with them into a shuffle that broke apart when the shine of the water burst suddenly through the trees.

The sun made its arc overhead. It came red through our eyelids and sucked us dry. On the shore, we tried to lie still, but the creep of our skin—from the legs of insects or their mouths, probing, or the shrinking twitch of our limbs, burning—jostled us until we sat up in groggy irritation. We shielded our eyes. The lake was brown and warm as piss though it glittered coolly, bluely. The stinking muck of the bottom clung to our feet.

We needed water, sandwiches, antiseptic ointment, and a dim place to lie quietly awhile, but when we got back they’d locked us out. We beat on the windows of their bedroom. Inside, the coil of bedding slumped to the floor. Pieces of clothing were flung. Next to the empty bed, the piled ashtray spilled. Bottles lay hollow on their sides.

We had a little bit of money between us, so we heaved our bags onto the deck and went back up to the road. We walked toward town this time, against traffic. We didn’t look into the windows of the cars as they passed, but we could feel the looking coming out at us.

The town was built when the people at the bottom of the mountain had money to spend, and would come up for the summers to breathe the air. The buildings had an alpine aesthetic—degraded by age. There was an Irish pub, a sports bar, a carry-out liquor store, a smoking paraphernalia shop, and a country café that was already closed for the day. In the café’s windows sat dusty baskets of nylon flowers and shattered husks of insects. The rest of the storefronts were empty. Their worn signs suggested a forgotten taste for cured meats and collectible china.

At the liquor store, we could afford a soda, a package of crackers, and a sack of sour candy worms. We squatted against the wall outside and counted out the pieces. We passed the bottle between us and took measured drinks.