“What does that say about you, then, ringleader?” Sani asks sulkily. “Give me the map so I know where we’re going. God knows these two can’t read it.”

“I can read a map,” Fletcher says, but shrinks under the gaze. “On my phone. To be fair, you didn’t specify.”

Sani turns away from them. “I am filled with regret.”

“You,” Fletcher argues, “do not get to be filled with regret.” He bends down and nods toward Dhorian. “Get on before I change my mind,” he says, and Dhorian climbs onto his back, happily burying his face in that long hair.

Yuki hands one of the maps to Sani, who looks it over with a keen eye. “You want us to hunker down on the other side of the lake?” he asks. “The green circle?”

Yuki reaches up and tucks an errant strand behind his ear. He glares at her, but allows it. He reminds Grace so much of Agnes, it hurts. “Yes, please,” Yuki says. She turns to Fletcher and Dhorian and kisses the side of their heads. A soft, little thing that passes between them like a thank-you. “Sorry you’re tired,” she says, “but you know. Lake monsters.”

Dhorian gives a sleepy little cheer before they follow Sani along a diverging path. “Lake monsters! Fuck—Fletch, don’t run me into goddamn branches.”

Grace watches them, Yuki’s own little orbiting universe. “How long do you think Fletcher will carry him?”

Yuki pulls a ball cap out of her backpack and slips it on. “Whole time,” she says. “We’re codependent like that. You need a hat? I have Yankees and my college alma mater.” She holds out a white-and-blue hat with BARNARD printed along the front. “That’s, like, letterman jacket material right there,” she tells Grace.

“Oh, well, if it’s that serious.” Grace slips it on and strikes a pose. “Do I look ready to face the supernatural?”

Yuki holds out her hand, and Grace grabs it. “Born ready. Now, c’mon, I wanna see how murky the water is from the docks.”

It smells out here, like nature, like earth. Their shoes leave imprints in the ground as they make their way to the water.

“How did you find out about this monster?” she asks.

Yuki looks away from her map. She leads them down a rocky, gravelly path, getting closer to one side of the lake. “Sometimes listeners will write in,” she says. “Like, if they’ve heard of something local or have seen something themselves and want me to check it out.”

“And you do?” Grace asks, fingers firmly intertwined with Yuki’s as they stumble over rocks and fallen branches. “What if it’s a hoax? What if it’s dangerous?”

They break through the trees. There’s more sand than dirt here, like a little beach with sprouting, grassy weeds. She can feel the grit start to sift into her shoes as they make their way to one rickety dock out of many.

Yuki takes her shoes off and nods for Grace to do the same. The wood is summer-warm under the soles of her feet. They settle at the end, legs dangling over dark blue-green water.

“Grace Porter,” Yuki says, as if minutes haven’t passed since they last spoke a word. “Are you doubting my ability to spot supernatural bullshit?”

Grace sputters. There is nothing to indicate that anything beyond pollution-mutated fish and wiggling seaweed lives here. Maybe that is what someone saw, sitting on this same dock. Some shadows and fish moving in the water.

“I don’t doubt you,” she says finally. “I just don’t get it, I guess. You don’t know what’s out there. You don’t know if anything is out there. All you have is the word of someone who listens to your show.”

“Just some weird, lonely insomniac with delusions of grandeur, right?” Yuki shoots back, her voice dry as she stares at the water and not Grace.

“I didn’t say that,” Grace says. The sun reflects off the water, off Grace’s hair. “I just don’t get it,” she repeats. “The other stories I’ve heard you tell on your show, they sound like stories. I mean, they sound like stories that have been around for a while, you know? This,” she says, waving a hand at the vastness of the lake, “is different. There’s nothing mythic here. It’s just a—a campfire story, right?”

Yuki is quiet for a long moment. They both stare out at the water, at the little island way out, like there they will find all the answers they’re looking for. Her feet dangle over the side of the dock and hit the edge on the way back. Thump, thump, thump, she goes. Like a beating heart. Thump, thump, thump.

“What about the stuff up there?” Yuki asks, voice low. “The stories people tell about the stars and the moon and constellations. What’s the difference?”

Grace leans back. “The stars and the moon and the constellations are real things,” she says. “Physical and observable things. Things made of mass and matter and energy. Real things.”

“They are,” Yuki agrees. “And then people create mythos from them, for them. They create stories as a way to understand something that is so much bigger and blacker and more expansive than we can comprehend.” She wrinkles her nose. “Do I believe that sirens lure men into the sea to watch them drown?” she asks. “Do I believe there was a time where I had four arms and four legs and two heads, and that I was cut in half as a punishment?”