The Promised Land

The annual fishing trip is supposed to be just the four of us guys, but this year Jimmy Barlow brought his daughter. He’s the only one of us with kids. Jimmy was seventeen when his girlfriend came knocking on his door with the news. That was eighteen years ago. I guess you could call the rest of us late bloomers.

Graham rented a spanking-new Chris-Craft for us this weekend, a twenty-footer with a cabin and plenty of room for four grown men and their gear, but the girl made it feel crowded. She wouldn’t smile and as soon as her father dragged her on board, she stripped down to a bikini thing all strings, lathered herself with oil, and took over the prow with her iPod, wearing sunglasses black and shiny as alien eyeballs.

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