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dinner tonight.” He places the fish on a stringer in his ice chest while everyone onboard congratulates her.
    “Chelsea!” he shouts, turning his attention right back toward me.
    “You’ve let out so much line, I think you’re actually fishing in Canada!
    The fish you catch will all need passports.”
    I grimace, shift my weight, and try to reel my line in. “Jeez. I think—I’m hooked on something,” I say.
    “Just keep it rolling. Slowly,” Clint says, coming over. I clench my shoulders, but it’s been too long since I’ve done anything that could be classified as strenuous. I feel like some klutz in gym class, uncoordinated and praying that no one tries to watch me dribble. As I attempt (ridiculously) to reel the line in, wishing Clint would just cut me free, already, an enormous fish breaks the surface. His greenish scales glisten iridescent against the light blue water. He jumps so high that he looks like he’s actually standing on top of the lake.
    “You’ve got one!” Clint cheers. “A big one, too, and he’s trying to break your line. Hold on tight. He’s trying to pull the hook out.”
    My heart jumps higher than the fish on my hook. I glance to the side, waiting for Clint to come swooping in with his net. But he just stands back, even though that colossal fish probably weighs more than Brandon’s bass amp. I was barred from helping Brandon and Dad hoist that unwieldy Marshall into the cabin—so why isn’t anyone trying to help me here? Why is Clint watching me struggle? The beads of sweat 68/262
    on my forehead feel so big, I figure I look like I’m wearing some gaudy rhinestone tiara.
    “Don’t stop—keep reeling—slow and steady,” Clint is saying. I shoot him a glare and grunt, just to emphasize my annoyance. But by now, no one, not even my parents or Brandon, is watching me . Everyone’s leaning against the side of the boat, watching the end of my line. Even a particularly rotund middle-aged guy has carved a viewing spot for himself; a dad’s holding his little boy up so that his eyes will clear the railing. The lake’s so clear, I’m sure they can all see the scales on the fish that fights me beneath the surface. I clench my entire body as I crank the reel.
    “Keep going,” Clint shouts. “You’ve got him. That’s beautiful! I’ve never seen anybody catch a fish that big on their first try.”
    I slam one foot against the side of the boat and figure I can safely plant my thighs against the railing. I feel like every single muscle is involved in my fight, and I remember it—the burn of work. It all comes back, how physical tests had fueled me, been the source of my happiness. I keep winding, fighting, beginning to enjoy the battle. Closing my eyes for a moment, I’m not on a boat but running down a court in the final quarter, fighting for control of the ball. I’m back—I’m whole. Unbroken.
    I relish the conflict, flexing my biceps to wind the reel until the fish is so close, he could whisper in my ear. Finally, Clint’s arm flies in front of my face as he scoops the fish into his net—a much bigger net, I realize, than the net he used for Gladys’s catch.
    “What a gorgeous walleyed pike,” Clint says.
    It’s a funny word to describe a fish—but really not that far from the truth. Its scales shine like an antique gold bracelet in the sun.
    “This guy’s huge ,” Clint says as he hands the fish to me. The walleye stretches all the way from my head to just past my hip, making my arms tremble beneath the weight.
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    “We’ve got to take a picture,” he goes on, rushing toward his clump of fishing gear and emerging with a camera that he aims at me. “I’ll bet this one’s a shoo-in for the biggest catch of the summer so far. If it’s still the biggest catch in August, you’ll win a free week’s stay here at the resort next summer.”
    My heart is racing, the sweat is cooling on my arms, and my legs are wobbly. For the first time since finding