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Chinese takeout joint. One container should do us, but Andy insists we get three.
    The lot’s almost full. Fathers and sons are getting back from a few hours’ fishing, couples are heading out for a sunset cruise, and people like us are going to their cottages. Most everyone’s white. I stay glued to Andy andMarty, hands in my pockets, hoodie up, face down, trying my best to be invisible.
    â€œWhat’s with you?” Andy asks.
    â€œNothing. Just don’t want to get hassled.”
    â€œDon’t be so paranoid.”
    â€œEasy for you to say.”
    The Johnsons’ boat is moored on Pier 4, Well 122. It’s a Chris-Craft Catalina, twenty-three feet long, eight feet wide, with a deep-V hull. Mr. J wanted to call it My Jolly Johnson , but Mrs. J said that was crude. She wanted something lame like Windsong or Serendipity ; in the end, she let him get away with Cirrhosis of the River .
    We stash our duffel bags, knapsacks, and bait in the dry compartment of the bow. The Catalina rides waves well, so we shouldn’t get wet unless Andy decides to set a speed record. Just in case, Marty and I zip nylon windbreakers over our hoodies.
    I have to admit, Andy knows his stuff. His directions are crisp and clear. We loosen the ropes and cast off, slipping on life jackets from the storage bins under the rear seats.
    Andy recognizes an old man down the pier and gives a wave. The man waves back.
    I turn away. “Who’s that?”
    â€œDunno. But I’ve been waving to him since I was six,” Andy reassures. “Just chill, okay? Nobody gives a damn who we are or what we’re doing. Look normal and you won’t draw attention.”
    Right. For lots of guys like me, normal would be rolling out a prayer rug about now. Then watch that old man give us a friendly wave. He’d be waving for Homeland Security is more like it.
    Andy steers us out of the marina to the St. Lawrence River. The breeze puffs up my windbreaker. I lean over the side of the boat and let the cold spray sting my cheeks. Somewhere out here in the water, there’s an invisible east–west line: The border between us and Canada. Andy navigates through clusters of craggy rock islands dotted with trees and cottages.
    â€œAre we in Canada yet?” I holler over the roar of the motor.
    â€œYeah,” Andy hollers back.
    So, I smile to myself, we’ve crossed the line without seeing it coming. I seem to be doing a lot of that lately.
    Another twenty minutes and I spot Andy’s cottage in a cove on the far mainland. Actually, it’s more like a second home, winterized, with a car in the garage.
    Other cottages dot the cove, each with fifty yards orso of shoreline. Most are dark, some already boarded up for the winter, but a few have families out in sweaters enjoying barbecues, playing catch, tossing Frisbees, or throwing sticks in the water for their dogs to fetch.
    Andy guides the Catalina in to his dock; it’s lined with tires to cushion arrivals. All the same, Marty sticks the butt of an oar off the side to ensure a soft landing. We hop off and help Andy moor.
    â€œIt’s almost sunset,” I say. “Maybe we should go to Hermit Island tomorrow.”
    Andy bugs out: “We haven’t come this far not to camp out!” He marches us into the kitchen, where we fill a cooler with junk food, plus frozen burgers and ice packs from the freezer. “You have your list for me, son?” he teases, in imitation of his dad.
    â€œShut up,” I grin.
    Every time I’ve gone to the Johnsons’ cottage, Dad’s given Mr. J a list of my prayer times, food restrictions, and movies I’m not supposed to watch. And each trip, Mr. J’s nodded seriously and put the list in his pocket. “You’ll remember all this stuff, won’t you, Sammy?” Mr. J’s asked me on the boat to the cottage. “Sure,” I’ve said, and then forgotten about it. Back