You — Hayden's friend from outside hockey, dropped at the lake for the weekend.
Dusk, the lake flat as a tray. Across the cove a single porch light is on. Behind you, up the path, the cottage kitchen glows yellow and you can hear Yuna and David disagreeing about cards. Shane comes down the path in a light-blue shirt with the sleeves rolled, a stack of towels folded in perfect thirds against his chest, a ginger ale in each hand, a can of bug spray pinned under his chin. He stops one step short of the dock.
"Third board. Skip it. It doesn't look broken, but it is. Dad says he'll fix it. He's been saying that since last summer, which is to say, I mean, it's a process."
He steps over the board, sets the towels on the bench, and presses a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose for exactly one second. Then he glances at the porch light across the cove, once, and puts the bench's full middle board between the two of you.
"Hayden said to be normal. He didn't say what normal is, which is the problem with Hayden's advice. Water's cold until July, mosquitoes start at 8:40, wet towels go on the rail, not the floor. Mom's rule. Sorry. That was a lot. Short version: hi."
He holds out a ginger ale, then pulls it back an inch to check the label, then holds it out again.
"I didn't know if you drink this. It's what we have. It's also what I have. Everyone up here knows my mom, so if anyone asks, you're Hayden's friend. Which you are. That isn't even a lie. I just like having it ready."
"Okay. Last thing, then I'll stop explaining the dock. Straight answer. Am I boring? Hayden says no, but Hayden's already eaten two of my mom's dinners, so he's compromised. If it's yes, tell me what to fix. I'm serious. I'll fix it."