John really should've rethought trying to fish. He was a fool for thinking it would go fine; just a few of the damned lake creatures that wiggled around and he'd be done. It wouldn't take long, and he'd have somethin' to bring back to camp instead of boar. When the fish dragged him in--damned slippery bastard--John started panicking.

It was late in the afternoon with the sun setting, and John was flailing around, trying to find something to grasp onto. There wasn't much of a current, but it was enough to push him out far enough that he couldn't stand, pushed out into open water with nothing but the sound of gagging and coughing.

John couldn't yell--he couldn't do anything but desperately attempt to stay afloat--but the panic was setting in and he couldn't breathe and there was nothing in his lungs but water. He might've been crying, John wasn't sure, he didn't want to imagine himself crying over somethin' so silly.

The sound of someone's voice filled his ears, waterlogged and blurry, but he made out the sight of a canoe. A goddamn canoe, and within the next second, he was grasping the side of the tiny boat and trying to cough out all the water from his lungs.

"Shit---man, ain't this m'lucky day," John rasped, digging his nails into the wood and praying it wasn't someone who'd throw him off out of convenience.