The weather had been mocking me for three days straight. Every morning I'd wake up with plans - check the creek's water level after the rain, explore that ridge we spotted last week, maybe finally map the connection between the two stream systems - and every morning I'd look out the window to see brilliant sunshine streaming through passing clouds, only to have fat raindrops start pelting the glass twenty minutes later.
Today looked like more of the same. Bright morning light, a few scattered clouds that didn't look particularly threatening, and yet I could already see wet patches on the street from an earlier shower I'd somehow slept through.
At least it's not a complete washout. Maybe we can get a quick exploration in between downpours.
"Gatreh! Are you planning to meet Patani this morning?" Mom calls from downstairs.
"Yeah, if the weather cooperates!" I call back, pulling on my clothes and grabbing my pack out of habit.
By the time I make it downstairs, Patani's already at the door with her usual energetic knock pattern. I can see her through the window, bouncing slightly on her toes despite the light drizzle that's started up again.
"Morning!" she says as I open the door. "I know it's raining, but it's not really raining raining, you know? More like... aggressive mist."
Aggressive mist. That's one way to put it.
"I was thinking the same thing," I agree, stepping outside with her. "We could probably get to the forest edge and back without getting completely soaked."
We make it exactly fifteen minutes into the forest before the aggressive mist decides to become actual rain. Not a heavy downpour, but steady enough that continuing would mean coming home looking like we'd gone swimming again.
"Okay, you win, weather," Patani sighs, wiping raindrops off her face. "This is annoying."
"Come on, let's head back before it gets worse."
We retreat to my house, where Mom takes one look at our damp hair and slightly soggy clothes and just shakes her head with an amused smile.
"Hot chocolate?" she offers.
"Please," Patani and I say in unison.
We spend the next hour at the kitchen table, sipping hot chocolate and looking out the window at the on-and-off rain while I show Patani my sketches from yesterday's solo reading session. She's particularly interested in the owl illustrations.
"We have to listen for these next time we're out in the evening," she says, pointing to the great horned owl drawing. "Your dad said he hears them near the Henderson place, right?"
"Yeah, but they're mostly active after dark. We'd have to convince our parents to let us stay out later."
"Challenge accepted," she grins.
By late morning, the rain has stopped again and the sun is making a valiant attempt to dry things out. But we've both learned our lesson about trusting this particular weather pattern.
"Want to work on something inside?" I suggest. "I've got some new maps to update, and you could help me figure out how that creek connects to the main stream system."
Patani nods enthusiastically. "Yes! I love map puzzles."
We spread out my collection of forest sketches on my bedroom floor, trying to piece together the geographical relationships between all our discoveries. Patani has an excellent memory for spatial details, and she catches several connections I'd missed.
"See, if this creek flows southeast like you marked here," she says, pointing to one of my sketches, "and the main stream runs east-west through the Henderson property, then they have to meet somewhere around... here." She points to a blank area on my largest map.
She's right. How did I miss that?
"That's brilliant," I tell her. "We should explore that area next time we get decent weather. There might be a merging point we haven't found yet."
By early afternoon, the weather has settled into a pattern of brief sunny periods followed by light showers - not enough to keep us inside, but too unpredictable for any serious exploration. Patani heads home for lunch, and I settle into a comfortable afternoon routine.
I'm working on updating my forest map with today's insights when Mom calls from downstairs.
"Gatreh! Can you come help me for a minute?"
I find her in the kitchen, surrounded by the beginnings of what looks like a hearty stew. Vegetables are chopped and waiting, meat is browning in a large pot, and she's checking items off a handwritten list.
"I'm making your father's favorite stew for dinner," she explains, "but I just realized I don't have enough milk for the base. Would you mind running to Morrison's corner shop to pick up a litre? The rain's stopped for now."
Perfect timing. I could use a short walk, and Morrison's is only a few blocks away.
"Sure, no problem," I say, already reaching for my jacket.
She hands me a 1000J bill and her shopping list. "Just milk, but if you see anything else we're running low on, grab it. And take the umbrella just in case."
Morrison's corner shop sits at the intersection of Maple Street and the main road through town, in a building that's probably older than Dad. The faded yellow paint and hand-lettered signs give it a timeless quality that I've always found comfortable.
The walk takes me through a part of Oakhaven I don't visit as often - more residential streets lined with modest houses, each with their own small front yard and character. Mrs. Chen is tending her garden despite the threatening clouds, and she waves as I pass. The Murphy kids are playing some elaborate game involving chalk drawings on their driveway, seemingly unbothered by the occasional raindrop.
It's nice seeing the neighborhood like this. Usually when I'm walking through town, I'm focused on getting somewhere specific.
The bell above Morrison's door chimes as I enter, and Mr. Morrison looks up from behind the counter where he's sorting through what looks like a delivery of canned goods.
"Afternoon, Gatreh," he says with a friendly nod. "What brings you in today?"
"Hi, Mr. Morrison. Mom needs milk for dinner," I explain, heading toward the small refrigerated section.
"Ah, making something special for your dad, I bet. Your mother always picks up milk when she's planning one of her stews."
He pays attention to shopping patterns. That's actually kind of impressive.
I grab a litre of milk and scan the shelves while I'm here, checking against Mom's mental list of things we might be running low on. We're probably fine on bread, definitely good on eggs, but we could use another jar of the jam Dad likes for his morning toast.
"Find everything you need?" Mr. Morrison asks as I approach the counter with the milk and jam.
"Yeah, thanks. Mom's making stew, so this should cover it."
He rings up the items and counts out my change with the deliberate care of someone who's been doing this for decades. "You tell your mother I said hello. And stay dry out there - looks like we might get another shower before evening."
As if summoned by his words, I can hear the first pattering of raindrops on the shop's windows. Perfect timing.
"Thanks for the warning," I say, tucking the milk and jam into my jacket pockets and pulling out the umbrella Mom insisted I bring.
The walk home is pleasantly peaceful despite the light rain. The umbrella keeps me mostly dry, and there's something satisfying about the steady rhythm of raindrops on the fabric above my head. The streets are quieter now, with most people staying indoors until the weather makes up its mind.
This is actually kind of nice. Different pace from forest exploration, but still a chance to see the world from a new angle.
I take a slightly longer route home, wandering through a few side streets I don't usually walk down. The architecture varies more than I'd noticed before - some houses clearly built in the same era as Morrison's shop, others more recent with different construction styles and materials. Dad would probably be able to tell me about the different building techniques just by looking at the windows and rooflines.
By the time I get home, the rain has stopped again and Mom is adding vegetables to her stew pot. The kitchen smells amazing - rich and savory with hints of herbs I can't quite identify.
"Perfect timing," she says as I hand over the milk and jam. "This should be ready just as your father gets home."
I settle at the kitchen table to watch her work. There's something mesmerizing about the way she adds ingredients - a splash of milk here, a pinch of seasoning there, all done by experience rather than strict measurement.
"Mr. Morrison says hello," I tell her. "And he predicted you were making stew just from the fact that you sent me for milk."
She laughs. "That man knows this town's shopping habits better than anyone. I swear he could predict what I'm cooking based on what day of the week it is."
Probably not that far from the truth. Small town patterns run deep.
Dad arrives home just as Mom is ladling the stew into bowls, perfect timing that speaks to years of domestic coordination. The three of us settle around the dinner table while rain patters against the windows again.
"How was the day?" Dad asks, digging into his stew with obvious appreciation.
"Patani and I got rained out of exploring, but we made good progress on mapping," I explain. "And I had a nice walk to Morrison's this afternoon."
"Walking weather, at least," Dad observes. "This pattern should break by tomorrow. We're supposed to get a clear day finally."
Finally. Maybe we can actually complete a full exploration without getting soaked.
The evening settles into comfortable routine - family dinner conversation, helping with dishes, then settling in the living room for our usual TV time. Dad finds a nature program about mountain wildlife, which leads to a discussion about how different environments create different animal adaptations.
"It's amazing how specialized creatures can get," I comment, watching footage of some kind of high-altitude bird that apparently never comes down from the peaks. "Like, they've completely committed to one specific environment."
"Makes you appreciate how adaptable humans are," Dad says. "We can live almost anywhere if we put our minds to it."
True enough. Though I wonder if that adaptability comes at the cost of the kind of specialized efficiency these animals have developed.
By the time we head upstairs, the rain has finally stopped completely and I can see stars appearing between the breaking clouds. Tomorrow should indeed be perfect weather for getting back to our exploration routine.
Maybe we'll finally get to check that merging point Patani figured out. And listen for those owls Dad mentioned.
I fall asleep to the sound of water dripping from the eaves, already planning tomorrow's adventures.