The lighthouse was visible through the vee in the trunk of the birch, the only way Trevor knew he was in the right spot.
He walked west, and only knew he walked west because the lighthouse was visible through the vee in the birch he had climbed as a kid.
When he saw the blackened grass he stopped and dropped to one knee.
Every summer.
From what, eight to fourteen? Til he figured it out.
“Wow,” Trevor said out loud. He kicked his head back and said wow again. Blinked. Looked again.
He felt himself smiling, though he was chilled, from within.
Once a summer, never twice, but always once, Uncle Corey would make the drive down to Southlake.
Joy’s.
The kind of place that’s half tourist, half local.
That first time-Trevor might not have remembered it had there not been a second, a third…how many? Too many. Once a year.
That first time Uncle Corey got a hair in his food.
Pulled it out of his own mouth, right after he grabbed the waitress, and grabbed her hard.
Joy came out,the nice lady whose name was on the sign above the other sign that said Fresh Pasties Made Dayly, Fres Pie.
Lunch was free.
Uncle Corey didn’t say thank you.
He said, “Damn right it is.”
Then they drove back to the little cabin off Tawas Road, Corey’s place.
Corey didn’t have a job.
But he had a motorcycle, and a place, and more fishing rods than twelve guys could use in a lifetime.
And that next summer, “get in the truck,” he said, and they went back to Joy’s.
Trevor noticed Corey didn’t wear his favorite hat.
Put on a different one.
When they walked into Joy’s Trevor thought Corey might have chosen the hat because the hat was cleaner, nicer.
This time Corey got a piece of Chore Boy in his stew. Showed it to the waitress, who dodged out of Corey’s grab.
Joy came over from talking to some truckers.
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