I pulled my gray beanie lower over my ears, finding solace in the warmth it provided against the constant cold. The kitchen was a whirlwind of activity before sunrise: the aroma of coffee brewing mixing with Pops’ aftershave, the steady noise of packing tackle boxes, the low conversations about fishing plans. Dad, Pops, and Uncle Jake, all dressed in matching fishing gear, looked like they stepped out of a Bass Pro Shops catalog.
Stetson teased, “Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today,” he said with a yawn, finishing his coffee with a sly smile on his face as I walked over to the counter.
I rolled my eyes, a sly grin pulling at my lips. “Doing just fine, Stet,” I replied, grabbing a glass from the cupboard. The orange juice I poured tasted strangely metallic, a fee
