The mist hung dead over the lake, a settled shroud our canoe parted and wove through. The cloud, about a knee deep as far as I could see, absorbed all noise except the far-off interstate whine and the occasional swish of a fresh water bass churning the water. My paddle dipped the surface, I splashed too much, and my father shushed me. The air was crisp and slightly damp. The far side of Silver Lake was ringed with a dense wall of long-leaf pine and oak; behind us the campground with our warm truck camper parked a hundred feet or so up the bank. There my mother and younger brother slept on thin vinyl mattresses.
