As Kenny got older, the window stopped being something adults noticed. The days were fuller now—school, chores, appointments—but the lake stayed where it was, unchanged. Foster homes came and went. Some were loud. Some were quiet. None of them lasted. Kenny learned quickly that the easiest way to move through them was to take up as little space as possible.
Being invisible wasn’t something anyone taught him. It was something he figured out. You didn’t complain. You didn’t ask why. You learned which cabinets not to open and which rooms not to linger in. You learned that attention was temporary, but consequences weren’t. Fishing stayed in his head because it didn’t require permission. It didn’t ask him to explain himself.
He started watching the Fishing Channel whenever he could. At first it felt ridiculous—watching people do something he couldn’t— but over time it became a kind of education. He memorized the way they talked about water temperature and structure, about patience and timing. He learned the names of lakes he’d never see and techniques he’d never try. It gave shape to the quiet hours.
Other kids talked about what they wanted to be. Kenny didn’t. He didn’t see a straight line forward, so he focused on what didn’t move. The lake. The boats. The idea that somewhere out there was a place where effort didn’t have to be explained. Where you could work quietly at something and let the results speak for themselves.
Adoption days came and went. Kenny watched families arrive with folders and smiles, watched names get called that weren’t his. He felt the disappointment, but he didn’t let it show. He was good at that now. Invisibility had become a skill, almost a discipline. The less you needed, the less anyone could take from you.
Fishing became less about escape and more about identity. It was the one thing he held onto that hadn’t failed him or changed its rules. He didn’t tell anyone how much it mattered. He didn’t need to. It lived in the space he’d learned to protect— the quiet place where no one asked questions and nothing had to be proven.
By the time he was a teenager, Kenny no longer stood at the window as long as he used to. Life had taught him how to look without stopping. The lake was still there, even when he wasn’t watching. And somewhere along the way, he learned that staying unnoticed didn’t mean being empty— it meant saving yourself for something that hadn’t arrived yet.