I wake up to the sound of rain pattering against my window. The steady rhythm is actually kind of soothing, but it definitely puts a damper on any forest exploration plans.
Well, that settles today's activities.
Downstairs, Mom is at the kitchen table with her morning coffee and what looks like a stack of bills. Dad's already gone - I can hear his truck isn't in the driveway, and the rain probably means he's got indoor work to catch up on at his workshop.
"Morning, Mom," I say, settling into my usual chair.
"Good morning, sweetheart." She looks up from her paperwork with a slightly tired smile. "Looks like you and Patani will be staying dry today."
"Yeah, I figured." I pour myself some juice and grab a piece of toast from the plate she's set out. "Is Patani still coming over?"
"Actually, her mother called earlier. They're visiting her grandmother in Millfield today - some family thing that came up suddenly." Mom takes a sip of her coffee. "So it's just you and me for most of the day. Your father's got that big cabinet project to finish before next week."
A whole day with no plans. When was the last time that happened?
After breakfast, I find myself genuinely unsure what to do with myself. Without Patani's boundless energy pulling me toward the forest, the house feels bigger and quieter than usual. I wander into the living room and flop down on the couch, listening to the rain.
The TV sits in the corner - we don't watch it much during the day, usually saving it for evening family time. But today feels like an exception.
I click through the few channels we get. There's a game show with overly enthusiastic contestants, a soap opera that looks incomprehensible, some local news about road construction, and then - jackpot.
"...these remarkable creatures have adapted to one of the most challenging environments on Earth..."
A nature documentary. The screen shows what looks like some kind of desert landscape, with a narrator explaining how various animals have evolved to survive extreme heat and limited water. Perfect.
I settle back into the couch cushions as the camera pans across a landscape that looks nothing like our temperate forest. The animals are fascinating - lizards that can run across sand without sinking, birds that can fly for hours without landing, plants that store water in bizarre-looking bulbous stems.
Always amazes me how different environments create such different solutions to the same basic problems. Food, water, shelter, reproduction - but the methods are completely different.
The documentary moves on to show how these creatures interact with each other. Predator-prey relationships, but also surprising partnerships - birds that warn mammals about approaching danger, insects that help plants reproduce in exchange for nectar.
"What are you watching?" Mom asks, appearing in the doorway with a dust cloth in her hand.
"Some documentary about desert animals. Did you know there are lizards that can actually run on top of sand dunes without sinking in?"
She sits down on the other end of the couch. "Really? How do they do that?"
"Something about the way they move their feet - really fast, and they spread their toes out to distribute their weight." I gesture toward the TV where a lizard is demonstrating exactly this technique. "It's like they're swimming through the sand instead of trying to walk on top of it."
"That's incredible. Nature is so much more clever than we give it credit for."
She's not wrong. Some of these adaptations are more elegant than anything humans have designed.
We watch together for a while, with me occasionally explaining what the narrator is talking about or pointing out particularly interesting behaviors. It's nice, actually - just spending quiet time with Mom without any particular agenda.
When the documentary ends, she goes back to her housework and I'm left channel-surfing again. There's not much else interesting on - mostly soap operas and talk shows that I wasn't really interested in even in my previous life.
I click off the TV and head upstairs to my room. My bookshelf has a decent collection built up over the years - some children's books that I used for my early language studies, a few more advanced books about science and nature that Mom and Dad have gotten me, and some local history books I picked up at the library.
I pull out one of the nature guides - "Common Birds of the Northern Forests" - and settle back on my bed. It's not exactly thrilling reading, but I've been meaning to get better at identifying the birds we see during our forest explorations.
Patani's always pointing out bird calls I don't recognize. Would be nice to actually know what we're listening to.
The book is well-illustrated, with detailed drawings of various species alongside descriptions of their habitats, calls, and behaviors. I recognize a few - the robins and cardinals are obvious enough - but there are plenty I've seen without knowing their names.
The section on woodpeckers is particularly interesting. Apparently there are several different species in our area, each with slightly different feeding behaviors and preferred tree types. That explains why some of the drumming sounds we hear in the forest are so different from each other.
I'm deep into a section about owl species when I hear Mom calling from downstairs.
"Gatreh! Lunch!"
The rain is still coming down steadily when I get to the kitchen. Mom has made grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup - perfect weather food.
"Find anything interesting in your bird book?" she asks, setting a bowl of soup in front of me.
"Yeah, actually. Did you know we probably have at least three different kinds of owls living in our forest? I bet we've heard them before but just didn't know what we were listening for."
"Your father might know about that. He's always been good with bird calls." She sits down with her own lunch. "We should ask him at dinner."
The afternoon passes quietly. I finish the bird identification book and move on to a collection of local folklore Mom picked up at a library sale. Most of it is pretty obviously made-up stories - tales about mysterious lights in the forest and strange sounds at night - but some of the historical bits are genuinely interesting.
Apparently Oakhaven was founded in the 1800s by families looking for good timber and farmland. The forest we explore used to be much larger, extending for kilometers in every direction, before logging and agriculture carved out the current town boundaries.
That explains some of the older tree stumps we've found deep in the forest. And maybe those tool marks on the rock formation - could have been from old logging operations.
By late afternoon, the rain has finally stopped, though the world outside still looks soggy and grey. Dad's truck pulls into the driveway just as I'm getting restless from all the indoor time.
"How was the cabinet project?" Mom asks as he comes through the door, shaking water off his jacket.
"Frustrating. The wood was more warped than I thought, so I spent most of the day just getting the panels to fit properly." He hangs his jacket on the back of a chair. "But it's coming together. Should be done by tomorrow if the weather holds."
"Gatreh spent the day learning about desert lizards and forest owls," Mom says, smiling.
"Did he now?" Dad settles into his chair with a tired but interested expression. "What kind of owls?"
I launch into an explanation of the different species the book described, and Dad nods along, occasionally adding details about calls he's heard over the years.
"There's definitely a great horned owl somewhere near the Henderson property," he says. "I hear it most evenings when I'm working late. Deep, resonant call - sounds almost like a person trying to make owl noises."
"We should listen for it next time we're exploring in that direction," I say.
"Just remember they're mostly active at night. You're not likely to see one during your daytime adventures."
Dinner is comfortable and relaxed. We talk about Dad's carpentry projects, Mom's plans for the garden, and my discoveries from the nature books. It's the kind of evening that would have been boring to my previous life's perspective, but feels perfectly content now.
This is nice. No pressing agenda, no problems to solve, just family time.
After dinner, we settle in the living room for our usual evening TV time. There's a mystery show that Mom likes, something about a detective in a small town solving crimes that seem impossible but always have logical explanations.
I half-watch while mentally cataloguing the day. A whole day without Patani's energy, without forest exploration, without any particular goals or discoveries. Just quiet, comfortable routine.
Tomorrow we can get back to exploring, assuming the weather cooperates. Maybe we'll even spot some of those owls Dad mentioned.
The detective on TV is explaining how the locked room murder was actually accomplished through an elaborate pulley system, and I find myself analyzing the logic of the solution.
That's unnecessarily complicated. If you're going to go to all that trouble, there are at least three simpler ways to achieve the same result.
But I keep the observation to myself. Sometimes the fun is in the elaborate solution, not the efficient one.
By the time we head upstairs for bed, the rain has completely stopped and I can see a few stars peeking through the breaking clouds. Tomorrow should be perfect weather for getting back outdoors.
Wonder what Patani's grandmother was like. She'll probably have stories about the visit.
I fall asleep to the sound of water dripping from the eaves, already looking forward to tomorrow's adventures.