---

---

Ethan Preston, Jimmy Preston’s oldest boy, is sixteen and stays away from the house as much as he can. His brother James, only two years younger, is so small and nervous he has no friends and no place to go after school besides home. James stays close to his mother, who is known to most people only as Mrs. Preston; they don’t remember the vibrant girl she was in high school, before Jimmy Preston knocked her up, before she descended into this permanent state of fog.

Jimmy, JP for short, can’t stand either one of his sons. They’re a couple of pussies, and it’s time for them to man up. “I’m taking them to the island,” he tells Mrs. Preston. “Should’ve done it years ago.”

His wife looks at the floor; she knows not to argue once JP’s made up his mind. “If that’s what you think is right,” she whispers, and packs them a cooler. She doesn’t want her boys out in the woods with her husband in the dark but on the other hand it might be nice to have the house to herself for a night; maybe she could have a glass of wine, a bubble bath. Maybe that would be fine.

It’s a weekday in September but JP hauls his boys out of class and herds them into the truck.

“Where are we going?” James asks. “I’ve got a math test next period.”

“Forget the test,” JP says. “You’ve got a phone. Whaddya need math for?”

They leave the city and bump along the highway awhile. They pass the school for delinquents, the Ontario Provincial Police station, the sign that tells them how much further it is to Toronto. Ethan rests his head against the window, watching the leaves that are already turning red. It’s been a dry summer, a hot summer; it seems the whole world’s on fire. Ethan can feel James’s thigh beside his, bouncing a little, that nervous thing James does. He should have taken the middle seat, let James take the window.

JP’s whistling off-key by the time they pull onto a dirt road. The whistling fills the truck until Ethan can’t hear anything else, until even his thoughts are drowned out. Finally JP points out his window and parks the car in a little clearing just off the road’s sandy shoulder.

“Isn’t this better, boys? Out in the wilderness with your old man?”

Ethan steals a look at his brother as they slide out of the truck. James doesn’t meet his eye.

“You two grab the gear. I’ll grab the beer.” JP hauls a two-four off the truck bed, cracks open one of the cans inside, and hoists the rest of the case onto his shoulder. “Leave your phones in the truck,” he calls as he heads into the bush. “You’re not going to need them where we’re going.”

Ethan lifts a knapsack–what in there’s so heavy, anyway?–and settles it on his back. He helps James with the cooler: Ethan at the front end, James at the back. JP’s already out of sight but there’s a light dirt trail for them to follow, and the wind carries back the off-key whistling from up ahead.

JP’s never this cheerful. James is anxious. Ethan winces, looking back at his brother’s face. “We stick together, no matter what,” he says. James nods and tries a smile.

It’s only minutes before they come to water, one of the many unnamed lakes around the city. JP’s standing beside a rowboat and holding a pair of oars. “You two get to row,” he says. “I’m gonna sit back and have a beer.” He pulls another can from the case and watches as his boys struggle to load the pack and the cooler into the boat.

Ethan doesn’t know one end of the rowboat from the other, and JP laughs at him when he sits down in the stern, facing the pointed bow. “You’re sitting backwards, dumbass,” JP tells him. “You need to sit in the middle and face the back.”

“How–” Ethan starts, then stops when he sees JP’s face darken. How was I supposed to know, he wants to say. No backtalk, JP’s face tells him. Not to the guy holding the paddles. Ethan moves to the middle.

“Now normally it would take just one of you to row,” JP says, pointing to the oarlocks on the sides of the boat. “But since I never play favourites, you both get to do it this time.” He hands each of them a paddle and motions for James to sit beside his brother. He pushes the boat away from shore and jumps in, rocking the boat so much James nearly drops his paddle into the water.

“Steady,” JP says. “You don’t want to strand us out here on the lake, now do you?”

James turns red and mutters, “No, Dad.”

“We get in trouble out here, nobody’s coming to help us,” JP goes on. “It’s just us three men tonight.”

“We’re going to be here all night?” Ethan asks.

“You better believe it.”

The boys have trouble synchronizing their rowing, so JP takes to yelling “Pull!” between swigs of beer. By the time they get to their destination–Ethan and James can’t see it, but JP tells them it’s coming up–they’re locked into a smooth rhythm together, brothers in more than just blood.

When they finally beach the rowboat and start pulling their gear out, JP says, “Watch your step while we’re out here. My Dad and his buddies used to bring me here in the winter to put traps out, and nobody knows if we brought them all in.”

“Stay behind me,” Ethan whispers to James as they pick up the cooler again. There’s only a narrow deer trail here, as if they were the first people ever to come this way. They trample dry leaves, leaves fallen way too soon, as they follow their father.

When they come to the fire pit, though, it’s obvious they’re far from the first people here. There are logs around the pit for sitting, and the place is littered with old food wrappers and beer bottles. “Here we are,” JP says, gesturing around the tiny clearing with pride.

“What is this place?” Ethan asks.

“This is where little boys like you come to grow the fuck up,” JP says. “Put the cooler down and empty that pack.”

Ethan gives James a hand signal and together they rest the cooler slowly on the ground. Then Ethan undoes the pack’s top strap and opens it up.

There’s a heavy metal-handled hatchet on top, gleaming at him. He picks it up and looks at his father.

“That’s for the firewood,” JP says. “Get used to handling it, because you and Jimmy there are going to be using it a lot this evening.”

“My name’s James.”

JP rolls his eyes. “My name’s James,” he mimics, whining like a baby. “You were named after me, boy, and my name’s Jimmy.” He crushes his empty beer can against his thigh, tosses it over his shoulder into the trees, and pulls a third can from the case.

“Go cut us some wood, and I’ll show you how to build a fire. Nothing too big, now.”

Ethan doesn’t know any more about cutting firewood than he does about rowboats, so he walks into the trees and starts to hack a low branch off a birch. He’s lost count of the number of strokes he’s taken when he hears a scream behind him. He leaves the birch branch dangling and runs back to the firepit, still clutching the hatchet.

James is down on the dry ground, crying, and his arm pokes out in a way Ethan hasn’t seen before.

“What happened?” Ethan shouts at JP, who’s standing over James, swaying.

“Dad pushed me,” James sobs. Ethan shoves the hatchet through his belt and helps James up.

“It was just a little tap to get him moving,” JP slurs. “Real men bring the firewood in before dark.”

“We have to go back,” Ethan tells JP. “I think his arm’s broken.”

“We’re not going back until sunup, so he’s just going to have to suck it up.”

“Are you kidding me?” Ethan starts. JP gives him a glare and pulls another can from the case. “At least put his arm in some kind of sling,” Ethan says before he stalks back into the bush and gathers whatever wood he can off the ground.

When he comes back to the clearing, JP’s leaning to one side on his log and James’s arm still hangs limp. “Jesus Christ, Dad,” Ethan says.

“Grab yourself a beer, boys,” JP slurs.

“We’re not nineteen,” the boys say together.

“You’re with your father. Get a beer.”

Ethan dumps his armload of wood onto the fire pit, grabs a can for each of them and sits, waiting for the promised lesson on firebuilding. JP’s still leaning though, so finally Ethan arranges the wood as best he can, rummages in the pack for a box of matches and lights one of the twigs. It catches and flares, even the live wood seeming eager for the fire. The wind picks up and sends the flames high into the air.

The beer is sour going down Ethan’s throat, and James’s face tells the same story. JP opens another can–how many is this? Ethan doesn’t know. If they were home, he’d be pushing Ethan’s mother around right about now.

Instead, he’s heckling James. “So, Jimmy-boy, what’s new with you? You never talk to the old man anymore.”

“My name is James.” He’s quieter this time, perhaps subdued by the alcohol.

“Jimmy Jimmy Jimmy Jimmy Jimmy,” JP sings.

“His name is James!” Ethan shouts, standing up. He throws his still-full can at his father.

“You little shit,” JP says, picking up a nearby bottle by the neck and smashing it against a rock. “You don’t lip off to me.”

“And you don’t lip off to James,” Ethan says. All the rage he has ever felt in his life wells up and he clenches his fists. And then JP is up, and he’s coming, and he’s rounding the fire, shaking the broken bottle, and he’s losing his balance, and he’s stumbling sideways into the fire. The pile of burning firewood topples onto his feet.

“Sonovabitch!” JP jumps up and down, trying to stamp out the flames licking his boots. But instead of dying out, they spread to the dried-out leaves on either side of him, then to the trees, then up into the air as the hot wind picks up again.

The island is on fire. Ethan feels the heat and flames closing in and starts to cough on the smoke. They can’t stay here.

Ethan pulls James up by his good arm and drags him towards the rowboat. He sees a metallic glint on the path and dodges it while JP staggers away from the fire pit and roars drunkenly behind them.

And then JP’s roar turns into a howl the likes of which the boys have never heard.

“Come back!” JP screams. “My foot’s caught in a bear trap!” He doesn’t sound quite so drunk now.

“Keep going.” Ethan pushes James towards the water, and turns around. The fire is coming up behind JP faster than anything Ethan’s ever seen.

Ethan doesn’t move. “Is it one of your old traps?”

“Yes!” JP screams. Ethan has only ever heard screams like this coming from his mother, and feels strangely satisfied hearing them now.

“Don’t you know how to get out of it?”

“It’s rusted! I can’t release the springs!”

“Ethan, come on!” James calls. “I can’t row by myself!”

“Ethan, get your ass back here and help me!” JP hollers.

Ethan can’t move, watching the flames and his panicked father.

The fire’s nearly on them. James can only get to safety with Ethan’s help. If Ethan goes back to help his father, he’ll die in the fire with JP, leaving James trapped too.

“I’m coming, James!” Ethan yells.

He turns and James is still right there. James pulls the forgotten hatchet out of Ethan’s belt with his good arm and tosses it towards their father, yelling, “A real man would get himself out!”

The boys run then, together.

As he starts to row, Ethan hears a thwack, then a blood-curdling scream. Another thwack. Another. He sees his father staggering out of the forest on one foot, engulfed in fire, screaming through the flames.

JP falls to the ground. Ethan doesn’t stop rowing.

When Ethan and James get to the far shore there are two O.P.P. officers waiting for them beside four-wheelers. “We saw the smoke from the station,” one of them says, while the other one wraps them in emergency blankets. “Good thing your truck’s parked off the road or we wouldn’t have been able to find you.” She points to the island. “Is there anyone still over there?”

The boys look at each other, then back to the island, nodding. The officer radios for fire and paramedics, then says, “Let’s get you home.”

Mrs. Preston is drinking her second glass of wine when the police knock on her door and pull her out of her bath. She is numb with the alcohol, more numb than usual, and really doesn’t mind the way she feels. So she doesn’t seem to hear the police when they say there’s been an accident. She doesn’t seem to notice when they say Mr. Preston’s dead. Words like “accident” and “dead” hold no more meaning for her than “beating” or “bruise.” She smiles, she nods. She pulls her poor broken sons to her chest. She holds them close and whispers, “My boys, my boys, my boys.”

---