Peter rested the paddle across the width of the canoe, watching the lake dazzle like starlight in the late-September sun. He squinted, holding his hand to his brow and looked out towards the watchtower. Fishing lines, cast off from the stairwell, made a web of silver threads. But they didn’t stop Becky from diving off the top, no matter how many times he’d warned her.

Peter sighed. “You’re gonna die.”

And this only encouraged Cooper. Soon that body, like an arrow in white undershorts, darted into the water and made its way back towards the canoe. Peter supposed he should join him. They wouldn’t have many days like this left this year. It wouldn’t be long before the birch leaves yellowed and the mists would come, capping the island’s piney spires inside another winter. But it would have to wait. The herd was on the move. In the years that followed his dad’s departure and in memory of everyone else they’d lost along the way, it had become tradition to go out to the plains each year to watch it.

Cooper’s hands clapped hold of the canoe. He hoisted himself up, tossing his head back so ribbons of wet hair lashed his back, and leaned in for a kiss. His blond beard was as coarse as the palms of his hands, but perfectly cut to the jaw now Peter had taken a blade to it.

“Comin’ in?” said Cooper.

“Your lips have shrivelled up in the water.”

“Int the only thing to have shrivelled up, neither.”

“I’m sure,” said Peter. “And Becky and Earle really don’t have that problem so why don’t you leave them to it?”

“I can’t feel it.”

“Give it time.”

“It ain’t down there no more.”

“It’ll grow back.”

“When, Pete? When?”

Peter pulled a strand of Cooper’s hair from his mouth and rolled it between his fingers. “You’re getting split ends.”

“Huh?”

“Too much sun. Too much water. Not enough—”

“You!”

Cooper clambered into the canoe, legs flailing about in the hull like a damn salmon, and sprawled across Peter’s lap looking up at him. “Kiss me.”

“You’re a fool.”

Cooper blinked once, deeply. “Kiss the fool.”

“I love you,” said Peter.

“I love you, too.”

“But we’ve got to go.”

Cooper shook his head. “Kiss me some more, first.”

“But we need to leave for the plains.”

“Is it time?”

“Yeah,” said Peter. “It’s time.”

“Then kiss me before it shrivels up for good.”

“Later.”

“When later?”

“Tonight.”

Cooper smiled. “Your hair’s gotten curly.”

“Yeah,” said Peter. “I should probably ask Becky to cut it.”

“Nah. Only if you don’t like it.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Get it cut, then,” said Cooper. “But your shoulders have burned.”

“They’re OK.”

“No, Pete, they ain’t. They’re as red as the canoe.”

“I left my T-shirt on the island.”