Somebody was knocking. I slipped on my Lakers shorts and my favourite white undershirt and opened the door. Squinted down at that poor little guy, swaddled in light. Poor Ola’s only child. Sad fat kid in oversized EXCO T-shirt and grey sweatpants. Staring down at his undone sneakers. Those Nike high-tops were all he could trust, poor guy.
—How are you, Mikey? What’s the news?
—Dunno.
The river water froze my feet up to the shins. Barefoot on rocks carved and rounded by time. This is what men are supposed to be. My brother and I were sick of skipping stones across the water’s surface–smooth and flat as the glass display cases we looked through with wonder at trading cards with prices we couldn’t imagine being able to afford.
Across the Chemainus river, a couple built inukshuks,