I'm always paddling in front of you in the lake, in the canoe, I dig, cut the water, you steer us in J-flits, your oar angles us to the first spit before our site through the branches. There won't be any bears, you said, but I heard him first, that black cub running races along the shore. You did the right thing, acting bigger than yourself and loud, and all night in the tent I kept holding you tighter in case the mother bear found our scent, your Old Spice, my store-brand Pantene.