“Hello, Gus,” said a familiar baritone.

I opened my eyes and took in the scenery around me. Blue sky stretched out above me, a canopy untouched by even the barest hint of clouds. The water that stretched out around me jumped and shimmered as it reflected the warm light of the sun. Small waves crested and splashed against the hull of a wooden rowboat.

I sat at the stern of the boat, facing forward. Across from me sat a man wearing a pair of white, linen shorts and a worn orange t-shirt. He faced me as he rowed with a strong and steady pace. His face was beginning to show its age, his hair now more salt than pepper and crow’s feet were deepening around his eyes. A tight, close-mouthed smile touched only half his face as he chewed on a blade of grass.

A quick hiss and the clink of metal on glass woke me from my shock as the man handed me an opaque green bottle.

“Here you go, son.” He winked as I accepted the beer by reflex. “Let’s just not tell your mom about this one, all right?”

“Dad?” I said. “How are you here?”

I looked around me once more, “Where are we?”

The water seemed to stretch out infinitely in all directions, as if the small boat was adrift in the middle of the ocean. There were no gulls or the familiar sounds that would indicate nearby land.

I recognized this boat, but we’d only ever used it on the lake at my cousins’ place. It wasn’t built to go out this far.

“So many questions,” he said. “Why don’t we just fish?”

He reached down and picked up an old bamboo rod with a cork handle, as he did my eye was drawn to an old tackle box. The box was grey and dented, still bearing the scars of two generations of father-son fishing trips. On the front, just below the clasp, was an old sticker, peeling and faded. I could barely tell what cartoon it depicted, but I remembered putting it there as a child.

The memories hardly felt real, as if they had happened to someone else. I just couldn’t reconcile that time with the way the world was now.

“This isn’t real,” I said. I stood, steadying myself as the small boat rocked. I threw the bottle smashing it across the bow. It shattered, raining small pieces of glass onto the floor as the rest sank into the ocean.

I found it hard to get angry. Despite trying to rile myself up enough to confront this imposter I remained calm. Unnaturally so. I could only act out what I felt I would do if I was truly angry.

I yelled, kicking at the side of the boat causing it to tip further before steadying itself.

“Isn’t it, though?” said the thing wearing the face of my father. He ignored my outburst, as if he saw through the act.

“No,” I said. “You can’t be real. This is an illusion, a fantasy.”

“Oh, that.” He waved his hand in dismissal. His smile now crossed his face from one ear to the other. “This place is as real as any other. The fact that it doesn’t exist hardly matters.

“We can feel, interact with, and even change it.” He cast a line into the water and I could hear a small splash as a red and white bobber gently rolled on the surface of the water. “And do not believe, even for a moment, that what happens here doesn’t have consequences.”

The boat rose up as a wave passed under us. A massive shadow now darkened the water beneath the row boat. I leaned over the edge of the boat to look, the shadow moved quickly but was massive enough that it still took almost a minute for it to pass. As it went I saw the bobber disappear with the twang of a broken line.

“Things exist here, churning beneath the water. Things best left alone,” said the voice of my father.

“And are you one of those things?” I asked. “What do you want with me?”

“Gus, my boy.” His voice became deeper than my fathers, and his smile unnaturally wide. “I thought I taught you better than that. Think it through.”

“Then who are you?” I said.

“I’m the shadow that hides in the corner of your eye, always watching, never seen.” He disappeared, oars sliding under the waves.

I felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck as I heard a faint whisper in my ear. “The scratch just barely out of reach.”

His voice took on a steady pace, increasing in tempo and pitch before devolving into a frantic prestissimo. “I’m the voice that picks apart and titter tats, that lays bare the sore deep upon your ceaseless soul. I don’t hide beneath, I ride the wave above and cast my line betwixt the crest and reel.

“I am the Fisher Man. I have cast my net at the heart of that which binds you,” he said, materializing in front of me once again.

His voice returned to the familiar baritone of my father and he spoke, slowly pausing before each word, “And you, my son. Are bait.”

I panicked and lurched backwards, falling into the water. Shadows wound around me and dragged me into the depths.

***

“Finn, my child, are you okay?”

I looked up to find the face of Pastor Belk. I way lying on hard linoleum floor and the pastor had knelt beside me to place a hand on my shoulder.

“Thank God. Are you okay?” the pastor asked. “I’ve sent for Jonathan, but I didn’t want to leave you alone.”

I sat up while rubbing at my eyes. “I’m fine Father, thank you.”

“Call no man your father on Earth,” said Pastor Belk.

“What?” I said.

“It’s from scripture,” said the pastor. “You can still just call me James, or Pastor Belk if that feels too informal.”

“Ah, okay. Sorry, Pastor Belk. So, what happened?” I asked.

“What happened? You tell me. One moment you’re telling me it’s working and that there was no danger, and the next you’re passed out on the ground and not responding.”

“Sorry,” I said. “It ended up being more difficult than I believed.”

“Did it work?” He asked.

I looked at him for a moment before answering honestly. “I really don’t know. Maybe? I think I may have just traded one problem for another. I did at least learn some of what I set out to.”

“That is always the way,” said the pastor with a sigh. “A man without burdens can not strive to be better. Solve one problem and another is cast before you. Your burdens will make you strong enough to carry the burdens of others.”

“Or they’ll break me,” I said.

I began to stand, and the pastor helped me up and held me until I leaned against a wall and told him I was fine.

“You know,” he said. “I have some training in secular counseling. I have a feeling you could use someone to share your burdens with. Anything you said to me would stay between us, of course.”

“Thank you, Pastor,” I said. “You’re probably right, but I’m really not ready to talk about it.”

“Just think about it,” he said. “It doesn’t have to be me, either. There must be someone you could confide in?”

I nodded my head, avoiding giving any sort of real answer.

I was saved from the awkward silence when Tiller and Catayla walked in. Tiller ran up to me asking if I was all right, but Catayla remained in the doorway eyeing me with an unreadable expression.

I explained to everyone that I was fine, and that I had success in learning a new skill. This was the only part of the plan that I had confided in the others. Tiller and Belk probably guessed a little closer to the truth, however.

I had to go over everything again only a few moments later when Pat showed up. In addition to Pat’s normal retinue of surly guards she had someone else with her.

She was a young woman, probably only a few years older than myself. Her dark brown hair reached down to the shoulders of her blue scrubs. She had a face that was cute but unremarkable and hidden behind bangs and a thick pair of glasses.

“This is Melody,” Pat said. “She was a nurse before everything, and she has some healing skills. The ‘enhanced’ kind of healing skills, I mean.”

Melody introduced herself and looked me over before declaring that nothing obvious was wrong with me. A glowing recommendation.

She still recommended that I get some rest and told me to send someone to find her if I had any worsening of symptoms. I agreed but had no real intention of following through.

After I was declared fit people started to file out of the room, so I took the opportunity to talk to Pat. I had the feeling she could be a difficult woman to get ahold of, at least unless there was an emergency.

“Did you find any information on any of the names I gave you?” I asked.

She gave me a look as if deciding if she should tell me before shaking her head and saying, “No one on that list is here.”

“I…”

“But,” she interjected. “We do have information on two of the names. Liv and Troy Swanson. Friends of yours, yes?”

“Old friends, the oldest really.”

“One of my men remembers meeting them in North Charleston, apparently they were heading up north to the Naval Weapons Station. Supposedly some survivors are there, but we haven’t had any contact.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Can I speak to him? The man who told you about them?”

She dropped her chin down in a single nod. “Sure, I’ll have him come find you later. You’ll be in your room, correct?”

The last bit didn’t seem like a question.

“Of course,” I said. I meant it this time. That didn’t mean I was planning on sleeping.