“Hello, Gus,” said a familiar baritone.

My eyes opened to blue skies. Beneath me where the hard planks of a wooden rowboat. White froth crested over the hull, spilling into the boat and creating a misty spray that wet my face. The noontime sun cast its reflection upon shimmering waves that stretched out far as I could see.

“Hello? Where am I?”

I shaded my eyes, as I tried to make out the man who sat across from me. He was facing me with his back to the sun. He rowed with a strong and steady pace. His face was mostly shadow, but as he smiled I could make out deep laugh lines and crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes. He twirled a blade of grass before shoving it between his teeth.

The man turned to grab something at his feet and his face became visible for the first time. His jaw was square and dusted with stubble, and his dark hair was quickly fading into silver. He held my gaze with deep green eyes.

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

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

“Dad?” I said. “How are you here? Where are we?”

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

He picked up an old bamboo rod with a cork handle. His movement drew my eyes to an old tackle box. It 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 couldn't recall what cartoon it depicted, but I remembered putting it there as a child.

Those memories didn’t feel real, as if they had happened to someone else. I just couldn’t reconcile those peaceful childhood days spent fishing with my dad with the way the world was now. Such experiences belonged to another place.

“This isn’t real,” I said.

I stood, steadying myself as the small boat rocked. I threw the bottle against the bow, but it merely rolled into the waves. The action seemed as futile as my anger, and yet I couldn’t keep the rage from boiling up. I yelled, kicking at the side of the boat and causing it to tip further before steadying itself.

“I saw you die! This can’t really be you ...”

“Isn’t it, though?” said the thing wearing my father’s face.

“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.”

“My father would never say anything so pointless. If this isn’t real, then neither are you.”

“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. “It’s real enough, and so am I. And do not believe, even for a moment, that what happens here doesn’t have consequences out there.”

A wave lifted the boat as a shadow passed under us. I leaned over the edge, the shadow moved quickly but was massive enough that it still took almost a minute for it to pass. I heard the twang of a broken line as the shadow disappeared, dragging the bobber down behind it.

“Things exist here, churning beneath the water. Things best left alone.” His smile was not my fathers. It was twisted and exaggerated in ways no human face could ever be.

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

“Gus, my boy.” His voice became deeper, and his lips peeled back around his grin. “I thought I taught you better than that. Think it through.”

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“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.”

I could only watch as he appeared in random spots, instantly vanishing whenever my eyes fell upon his ephemeral form. His voice began to increase in pitch and tempo. His words grew frantic and disjointed.

“I’m the voice that picks apart and titter tats, that lays bare the sore deep upon your soul. I don’t hide beneath, I ride the wave above and cast my line betwixt the crest and reel.”

He appeared before me, his form finally solidifying. “I am the Fisher Man. The wounded king. I have cast my net at the heart of that which binds you.”

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 backward, 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 was lying on a hard linoleum floor and the pastor had knelt beside me and had placed his hand on my shoulder.

“Thank God. Are you okay?" his voice grew concerned. "I’ve sent for Jonathan, but I didn’t want to leave you alone.”

I sat up while rubbing 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 just call me James, or Pastor Belk if James 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 screaming and convulsing.”

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

“I would say so,” he said. “Was it at least worth it? Did it work?”

I looked at him for a moment before answering. The corrupted memories were gone, but so too were my original experiences. I knew that they were missing, but I only had vague impressions of what was lost.

“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 cannot 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, but my knees wobbled. The pastor grabbed me under my arms and helped me walk until I could lean against the wall. I was still unsteady, but I could feel my strength quickly returning.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“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? It doesn’t have to be with me. 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 through the door. “Are you all right,” yelled Tiller as he ran over and helped me remain standing. Catayla remained in the doorway, eyeing me with an unreadable expression.

I explained to everyone that I was fine and that I had had success in learning a new skill. This was the only part of the plan that I had confided in the others. Tiller and Pastor Belk probably guessed that there was more, but they never pried.

I had to go over everything again when Pat showed up a few minutes later. 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 I was. 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 began 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 of pity 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 gave a slight nod, just a single drop of her chin. “Sure, I’ll have him 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.