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girls say you’re cute, and bam, it’s Corbett who?”
    “They didn’t say I was cute.”
    “Whatever, Grr-if-fy.”
    “Shut up,” Corbett/Griffy commanded.
    “Well, what about your dad?” Pike asked.
    “I don’t know.” Corbett/Griffy shrugged. “He’s not here. My name, my call. Right?” he asked with doubt.
    “Right.” Pike nodded his approval.
    From that moment on, the name Corbett was forgotten. Everyone, at least in the state of Wisconsin, called him Griffy, and he made no objection.
    A few minutes later, the boys stepped into the fish house. “Ugh! It stinks in here,” Griffy cried out. He looked around the small structure. “This is creepy and so gross.”
    “What?” Pike asked. “It’s not that bad.”
    The fish house sat on the banks of Lost Land Lake. Made of brown clapboard, it looked like a miniature cabin. The screened windows encircling the narrow building buzzed with flies and mosquitoes. Scalers, knives, skinners, and sharpening stones hung haphazardly around the room. The sink and wooden slab countertop were stained with blood. A large, bushy brush specked with fish scales and oozing slime sat to one side. A bare lightbulb surrounded by strings of novelty lights in the shape of sunfish hung from the ceiling. This touch of whimsy looked very out of place in a room that, to Griffy, resembled a torture chamber. The Garfield sisters had obviously cleaned up—the countertop had been wiped and sprayed down—but this place was beyond help. And the smell. Whew!
    “What are you doing?” Griffy asked in horrified astonishment when he saw Pike sorting through the bins of dead fish and throwing skeletal remains and skins on the cement floor. “I’m not picking that up.”
    “Oh, quit being a wimp. I’m looking to see what people are catching. Look, here’s a really nice northern.” Pike held up a long, snakelike creature cleaned of its skin and meat. Its duckbill snout and tail remained intact, but its sides were gone. A thin layer of translucent meat held its rib cage and spine together.
    “You can practically see right through it,” Griffy said, amazed by the exposed veins and intestines. He actually took the fish from Pike, forgetting his squeamishness, and examined it.
    “Uh-oh,” Pike said. “Here are some bass heads. Someone is trying to be sneaky.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Bass aren’t in season for another week. You’re supposed to throw ’em back. Can’t fool me. People chop up the heads thinking the fish will be more difficult to identify. But I know a bass when I see a bass.”
    “So, what’s the big deal?” Griffy asked.
    “If caught, you’ll be fined—a lot of money. Just like jugging, it’s illegal.”
    “There are a lot of rules around here,” Griffy said, dismayed. He was becoming a little frightened to fish. What if he broke a rule he didn’t even know about? He could be fined, or worse, arrested. What if he went to jail? He might never get to go home and see his parents again. “Maybe I shouldn’t fish? With the DNR patrolling the lake and all.”
    “Don’t be silly,” Pike said dismissively. He took the northern back from Griffy and grinned. “I’ve got an idea.” Pike’s brown eyes had a sparkle in them that made Griffy a little nervous.
    “Now what?” he asked.

Out on the Lake, Part III
    Taylor Wilson hurried down to the bank of Lost Land Lake. He had overslept and was anxious to pull in his jugging line. He didn’t want anyone to see what he was up to—especially Vera Goodner in Cabin 5. The old bag , he thought and harrumphed to himself. The day before he had pulled in a couple of nice bass and was hoping for more. In season or not, he was keeping them.
    Rain drizzled down, making the ground slippery and the morning still. Years of erosion had exposed a maze of tree roots along the bay’s bank. Taylor, in his rush, tripped on a root and slid down the embankment, smearing sandy mud down his right side along the way.
    “Dang