Daisy saw it and took me by the wrist. We snuck out to the backyard before Mom made it inside,
and then picked our way through a little bramble of honeysuckle bushes at the edge of the yard.
It turned out we did still have that canoe, overturned and full of dead spiders.
Daisy flipped it over, then wrenched the paddles and two once-orange life jackets from the ivy that had grown over them.
She swept out the canoe by hand, tossed the paddles and the life jackets into it, and dragged the canoe toward the riverbank.
Daisy was short and didn’t look fit, but she was super strong.
The White River is so dirty,” I said. “Holmesy, you’re being irrational. Help me with this thing.”
I grabbed the back part of the canoe. “It’s like fifty percent urine. And that’s the good half.”
“You’re the one,” she said again, then heaved the canoe over the riverbank into the water.
She jumped down the bank onto a little peninsula of mud, wrapped a too-small life vest around her neck, and climbed into the front of the canoe.
I followed her, settled into the rear seat, and then used the paddle to push us out into the river.
It had been a long time since I’d steered a canoe, but the water was low, and the river was so wide I didn’t have to do much.
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