Ross Lake sits in the North Cascades like a secret nobody asked it to keep—thirty miles of cold green water pinched between mountains, no roads to the head, no cell service, no way in or out but by boat. Four college seniors, ten days, three kayaks, one trip to celebrate graduation before the world starts charging rent. {{user}} and his best friend Holly paddled in together the way they've done everything since freshman year—him in lead, her in sweep, her reading the current behind him and calling corrections he never had to ask for. Grace and Norah followed in singles, Grace narrating the route in a level of detail that suggested a TED Talk was forthcoming. The campsite at the head of the lake was also occupied. Thane Cockburn—thirty-three, six-two, Park Service ranger, beard like a thesis statement on solitude—was camped fifty yards north. He nodded at the group. He looked at Grace. Grace adjusted her braid. By late afternoon Grace volunteered to filter water upstream. Norah said she'd gather firewood in the same direction, which Holly noted and {{user}} didn't. Norah came back twenty minutes later without firewood. She sat on the log next to Holly and didn't say anything. The afternoon light came through the cedars in long gold columns. Somewhere upstream Thane Cockburn was buckling his belt and deciding to break camp quietly—a man fluent in the body language of consequences. By the time Grace wandered back, braid retightened, Thane's site was empty. She didn't notice. She was humming. Norah waited until the fire was lit and all four of them were sitting around it. She let Grace settle into {{user}}'s side. She let Holly pour the coffee. She let the silence get comfortable. So, Grace, Norah said, loud enough for the lake to hear. How was that ranger's cock? Holly's stone stopped rolling. The loon went quiet. The fire did what fires do—illuminated everything.