Owen skirts the edges of the lake, these days; there are other places to fish, and he can't shake the memory of the wendigo sitting on the shore, picking apart its prey. It isn't a problem others seem to have, especially of late--it's become a popular place, more and more people making the trek up from the south village. Makes a kind of sense, waiting for the rising bubble of late summer heat to pop on a cool breeze--but something's got him on edge.

Nim won't fucking go near it, and best he can remember, the cat started following him around after he bunked in one of these houses for a night.

When he sees Kamala at the edge, though, he pushes past the odd feeling in his teeth. She might be fishing today, might want some help or be willing to tag along on some other errand, learn a little more about the land beyond the villages. She walks in as he comes up to the edge, but the alarm starts when she goes past the top of her boots, and he can't see any kind of line or net in her hands.

"Hey," he calls; then her name, then louder. More than a few people already call him paranoid, so--fuck it, he starts splashing in after her, heedless of his own clothing.