James Brody, otherwise known as Jim, sat in the back of a pickup truck with the luggage. His mother, a chubby blonde woman from Finland was bouncing along in the drivers seat with Rocketman, the family dog, in the passengers seat. Sitting across and slightly along from Jim was Henri, Jim's Finnish cousin who he hadn't seen in years. They had been pretty close when younger, visiting frequently and Skyping constantly, but as the years wore on like a beloved duvet, it lost its appeal and school and work and ambitions crawled further up on the priorities list. But Henri had a break or something from school in Finland and decided to visit his Yankee Doodle Doo family. Jim had had made plans to come to this remote little cabin with a friend from school, but when his mom told him to try and get Henri invited so they could spend more time together while they could, Jim agreed. Henri was cool. He could roll with the punches. And now, as they sat in the bed of the old 1989 Ford F100, the wind tussled Jim's hair playfully, like a drunk girlfriend cuddled up in bed with you. The sun warmed his bones gently. If any phrase in the English language could describe this day, it would be that today was perfect.

Rocketman's head stuck out of the passenger window, tongue lolling in the wind and eyes closed. When Mrs Brody came to a halt outside of a quaint little store with 'Ben's' written on a sign, swaying softly from the breeze coming from the lake, Rocketman brought his head inside and looked questioningly at the woman driving, asking [i]Why have you stopped the wind?[/i] with the brown eyes of the labrador retriever begging for it to start again. Mrs Brody stroked the dog from head to tail before opening up the window separating bed and cab. "Here you are, honey," she said in her thick Finnish accent. Jim didn't even notice it anymore, he had been so attuned to it for 19 years that it was normal, but everyone else who met her fell in love with the larger womans voice. Most people who met her said she reminded them of a baker, with rosy cheeks and a laugh always in the air. Jim thought she looked more like the headmistress from Matilda.

"Thanks mom," Jim replied, lifting his hiking pack and slinging it over one shoulder. He slapped the knee of the other boy. "Wakey wakey, kiddo. Let's get our hillbilly on," Jim said, not thinking that Henri may not catch the joke. He was bright, but he had only been here a handful of times, and Jim wasn't sure how far the American humour reached across the globe. Jim vaulted off the flatbed and slipped the other strap over his shoulder, securing the heavy bag. He walked to the drivers side and kissed his mother goodbye on the cheek and stuck his arm over, scratching Rocketman under the chin. He was a good dog, didn't bite, rarely barked, and had a sense of humour that almost seemed to rival most humans. He would pick up on jokes (well, the atmosphere of the room) and do tricks or comfort someone if it was necessary, it was almost spooky the way he connected with people like that, but Rocketman had saved Jim more times than he could count, so he didn't question it. 

Standing at the entrance to Ben's were two people, a boy and a girl. He vaguely recognised them but not enough to to attach a name to the face. Jim strolled over. Both were reasonably attractive by anyone's standards, male or female, straight or gay. But the blonde girl had something about her, something that drew Jim's gaze. "Hi, I'm Jim," he said as he looked at both of them, a friendly grin on his face. "I just can't get over how beautiful it is today. I'm guessing you're here for that Victoria girl? Dom invited us."