Travis sat on the dock and opened the first envelope. It was a letter from Frank, written the winter of his stent surgery. He told his son that he had been afraid of not having enough time, that every Saturday on the lake was the best of his life, and that Travis should never feel guilty about selling the boat, only about forgetting to fish. Travis laughed through tears, then read the next one aloud.

Each envelope held a short letter and a fishing lure Frank had carved by hand. The last one was dated the month before he died. It named a quiet cove on the north shore where Frank had taken Travis as a boy, and asked him to cast one line there for him. Mr. Holm said quietly that Saturday was free, and so was the boat.

Mr. Holm refused every dollar. He said he had only borrowed the boat for a while, and I could keep the sixty dollars for gas. On Saturday, Travis and I fished that cove together, and he caught a bass the same size as the one Frank had mounted over the fireplace. He cried, then laughed, then fell asleep in the sun.

In the end, Mr. Holm sold the boat back to Travis for exactly seven hundred fifty dollars, the same amount, and would not hear otherwise. The trailer sits again beside our garage, and the yellow patch of grass is green. Every Saturday, my son takes his own boy out on the lake, and the hull still echoes.