The Goldfish Code

Marcus's summer was supposed to be lit — streaming, gaming, zero parental supervision. Instead, his parents announced they'd inherited a "rustic charm" cabin. Three hours north. No cell service. No internet. The **cable** guy had literally laughed when they'd asked about installation.

"You'll thank us," his mom said, handing him a actual paper map. "It'll be character-building."

Marcus's response was to stare out the window in committed silence.

The first week was brutal. Marcus went through actual withdrawal, checking his phone every thirty seconds even though he knew damn well there were zero bars. He read ingredients on cereal boxes for entertainment. He taught himself to identify seven different bird species just to prove he could.

Then he met Leo at the general store, working behind the counter with highlighter-yellow hair and a galaxy of freckles.

"You're the city kid," Leo said. "Everyone's talking about you."

"Great," Marcus muttered. "Exactly what I needed."

"My cousin has a pet **goldfish**," Leo continued, like this was relevant information. "Named it Shark. Thought it was hilarious until it died and they had to explain to her five-year-old sister that sharks don't actually go to fish heaven."

Marcus cracked a smile despite himself.

They ended up talking for two hours. About video games and music and how weird it was that adults acted like teenagers discovering the internet was the end of civilization, when they'd literally spent their youths doing absolutely nothing in small towns and turning out fine.

The next day, Leo took him hiking to this spot with a waterfall that had a natural swimming hole.

"My dad says **bear** sightings are up this year," Leo said casually, adjusting his backpack. "So, you know, keep your eyes open."

Marcus froze. "As in... actual bears?"

"They're more scared of you than you are of them. Probably. Unless they're not. Then you're pretty much screwed."

"You're terrible at this reassuring thing."

Leo grinned. "I'm honest. There's a difference."

They spent the afternoon swimming and talking about everything and nothing. Marcus found himself telling Leo about his anxiety around returning to school in the fall, about feeling like everyone else had their life figured out while he was just floating through spaces he didn't understand.

"That's the thing about goldfish," Leo said thoughtfully, lying on a rock and letting the sun dry his skin. "People think they have three-second memories. That's actually a myth. They remember stuff for months. They just don't hold grudges."

Marcus stared at him. "Are you comparing me to a fish?"

"I'm saying maybe you're overthinking everything because that's what you do. But maybe you could also just... not. Like, have the memory but don't carry the weight."

That night, Marcus wrote in the journal his mom had "suggested" he keep. He wrote about Leo and the waterfall and how he hadn't thought about his phone once. He wrote about how he'd always assumed his anxiety was permanent, like something baked into his DNA, but maybe it was more like a series of choices he kept making without realizing they were choices.

The **cable** still wasn't connected when they left three weeks later. Marcus's mom asked if he'd hated it.

"It was fine," he said, which was the biggest lie he'd told all summer.

In his pocket, his phone vibrated as they re-entered cell service. Twenty-seven notifications. Marcus turned the volume off and kept looking out the window, watching the trees blur past, already planning next year's trip.