IT ALL STARTED three and a half weeks ago when Trudy died — four days after my tenth birthday.
One day our beloved family goldfish was swimming in her fish tank, her long translucent fins swishing along behind her, then the next day Trudy was belly up, eyes grayed over, her beautiful fins never to swoosh again.
I was the first to find her. I pushed my peach-colored bangs out of the way, pressed my face close to the fish tank, and slowly tapped the glass twice with my finger, willing Trudy to flip over, to move, to somehow, look… undead. After I realized what had happened, I quick-stepped away from the glass as a voice that kind of sounded like mine but not quite like mine released a strangled "Mooooom!" My mom rushed into our family room — otherwise known as Trudy's room which had for six years housed her rectangular glass home. The one that was nearly as long as the back of the couch, and filled with teal pebbles, purple, green and yellow plastic aquarium plants, and a small treasure chest I’d picked out specially for her.
"What in the world, Willa?"
I pointed to the fish tank and her gaze followed the direction of my gangly arm with its outstretched trembling finger. She took a few steps towards the fish tank and peeked in, finding Trudy belly up and just as dead as I had. She let out a short "oh" before her hand covered her mouth.
Later that day when my dad got home from work, the four of us — dad, mom, my younger sister Farrah and I held a backyard funeral for Trudy. We buried her in the shoe box that my newest pair of Nike's had shipped in and placed her in a deep dirt square under our one and only willow tree. We all said a few words, and I made sure to say aloud, “Trudy, you were the best fish ever.” Then I cried harder than I ever remember crying. It wasn't only that Trudy was gone; it was the unexpectedness of it all. I couldn't understand how one day I had a pet goldfish, and the next day, for no apparent reason at all, I just… didn't. I couldn't understand how something could be stolen away that quickly. That unexpectedly.
A few days later, I was sitting at our kitchen table, two bites into my microwaved corn dog when our next-door neighbors — the Gilbertsons — stopped over. At first, they were all hand gestures, “I just can’t believe it’s” and “it’s just too bad’s.” When they got through all that they finally got around to telling my parents what they’d stopped over to tell them — Old Man Mister Reilley, a widowed 74-year-old farmer who lived up the road from us had grilled himself a steak the night before and choked to death on a piece of it. I heard my mom inhale sharply and my dad say, “No kidding,” right as I, without much thought at all, spit out my latest bite of corn dog. It bounced twice before landing just to the left of my dad's shoe. All four of them — mom, dad, and The Gilbertsons looked down at the unchewed piece of mush-covered meat before their questioning eyes fell on me. My dad was the first to speak, glancing between the piece of corn dog and me before asking the question I’d hear for the second time that week. “What in the world, Willa?”
After hearing about Old Man Mister Reilley, I started thinking about death a lot more. But it wasn't until later that night while we were all watching FernGully: The Last Rainforest that I heard my dad whisper to Mom, "You know what they say about death, it comes in threes," that it became all I thought about.
Before Trudy's death I had a habit of staying up past my bedtime, flashlight in hand, covers over my head, either reading or doodling pictures from my favorite comics. But after Trudy and Old Man Mister Reilley died — and after hearing what my dad said about there being a third — I started spending my nights doing what I called “making the rounds.” First, I’d tiptoe into my parents' bedroom and up to their bed, just close enough to make sure they were still breathing. Then I'd tip-toe over to Farrah's room and do the same. Even though sometimes I called Farrah a crybaby and annoying, I still didn't want her to… you know.
During my nightly trips when I'd "make the rounds" I'd occasionally find my parents still awake, mumbling in the family room as they watched "the news." As always, my curiosity got the better of me, so I began hiding behind the back of the couch where Trudy’s fish tank used to be and (secretly) watching "the news" too. BIG mistake. One thing I learned from watching "the news" is all the possible ways a person can die. Forget car crashes and tornadoes, apparently, people can die just by going to school. I also learned they can fall off a cliff while taking a picture at the Grand Canyon. They can get lost and starve to death in the woods. Or worse — get eaten by a bear. Or bitten by a rattlesnake. They can die from drinking too much water, by not drinking enough water, or by their brain having something called an "aneurism," all for no good reason at all. A house can suddenly explode. A new freckle on your face can be deadly. Or you can eat a piece of unwashed lettuce, catch something called "salmonella," and a few days later you’re a goner. Unbelievably, you can even stop breathing in your sleep. I guess what I'm saying is in a world where even a bird can get run over by a car, the possible ways to die are endless.
After Trudy and Old Man Mister Reilley died, I also began counting down the days until we'd road trip from Texas to Michigan for our annual family reunion at my great grandparents lake house. We had just over three weeks to go, and every one of those weeks leading up to our trip I asked my mom to help me call my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and great grandparents — definitely great grandparents — pretending I just wanted to talk. Really, I wanted to make sure they were still breathing, too. After all, I knew the truth. The Grim Reaper was still out there looking for his "third."
Slowly, the weeks passed. Then yesterday, after one night in a Best Western and two days of cross-country driving, we finally arrived at my great-grandparents' house. I can't tell you how good it feels to have all my people together under one roof where I can safely keep an eye on them.
When I marched through my great-grandparents front door, the familiarity of their house greeted me like a warm hug — the scent of molasses cookies, the glass coffee table bowl filled with chocolate - covered peanut clusters, the ever-staged antique wooden chess table in the bay window. I listened for the sign that my grandpa had already arrived and smiled when I heard it — Elvis Presley on the radio. One by one I went around hugging each of my family members extra tight, whispering softly against them, “you’re okay, you’re okay,” all the while considering how amazing it is we're all still here because the Grim Reaper hasn’t caught us yet. While they hugged me back, I considered if they looked well and sneakily checked for any new mysterious freckles on their faces. They looked me up and down, saying things like "growing like a bean," "I just love that red hair," "all skin, bones, and elbows," and "still have those signature serious eyes."
It's our second night here and I'm back to "making the rounds," but sneaking around my great-grandparents' house is much different than at my house. “The news” never comes on, and all the adults stay up extra late playing card games where they cackle, slam the table, and hoot like wild animals. Sometimes, they even let out a curse word or two. I see it all from my hidden spot behind the couch, the one right next to the rolling cart that holds the tin of molasses cookies and stacks of TIME magazines. I’ve lost track of time but know the night is crawling closer to the next day because there’s a yawn here, a rubbing of the eyes there, "goodnight," "sleep tight," "see you in the morning." One by one the adults move to their bedrooms until it's only my grandpa and great-uncle who remain. The two brothers now sit opposite each other, the antique chess board between them. They stay like that for ages, the house deadly silent except for the ticking of the wall clock — the one that chimes a different bird call every hour. My grandpa and great uncle — one built like a crane, the other like a bull—quietly stare at the chess board as if their lives depend on it and slowly, carefully, shuffle the wooden pieces around. Sometimes there's a mumbled word, an agitated breath, or a small 'take that' smirk. As I watch them, I wonder if this is a tradition between my grandpa and great uncle, and how long it's been going on. I consider if I'm the only one who's ever seen this silent, late-night game. Me, their one and only audience. Their unnoticed eye. Stealing time and stealing memories, before the Grim Reaper steals them first.
In the morning I wake and plop at the kitchen table to eat my staple breakfast at my great-grandparents' house — a bowl of Wheaties with cut-up banana. In the afternoon I swim in the lake with my mother, father, and Farrah. My grandpa joins, followed by my great uncle who cannonballs so large it rocks the weather-worn dock. My grandma and great-grandma sun in their lawn chairs, just out of splashing range. They hold sweating glasses of sun tea in their hands and wear floppy hats, their permed hair sprawling out from all edges. I see my great-grandpa walking towards us. He's taller than I remember. Slenderer, too. His hair is thick and so white it glows under the sun. He beats his chest once, twice, three times, and then jogs down his dock before diving into the lake. We all clap and cheer because it's not every day you see an 88-year-old man who can still do that.
I look around at them all — my people, my family, the ones I love most in the world. I consider how at ease I finally feel having all of us together in one place. Breathing and alive, despite all that's out there trying to steal that breath from us. I think again about who will be "the third," and wonder when the Grim Reaper will make his visit. At this thought my throat tightens. Then, something brushes against my foot.
My heart thuds as I frantically look around me, trying to see what it is, but the lake is murky and unclear. I can’t see what’s trying to get me beneath its surface. I think about the countless snakes I’ve seen slithering into our pond in Texas, and wonder, if they also slither here in Michigan’s waters. I think about the man I saw on the news whose leg swelled up twice its size from a rattlesnake bite, and wonder if Michigan has rattlesnakes, too. I think about how right here, right now, I might be “the third.”
“What’s wrong, kiddo?” My grandpa asks from somewhere behind me.
“There's something by my foot!” I yell, my heart drumming faster in my chest. “I felt it! It might be a poisonous snake!”
My family stops swimming, their splashing turning to ripples, their eyes closing in on me. For a split second we're all quiet, motionless, the next action suspended in time. Then, in one swift motion my grandpa’s hands are around my waist and I’m being lifted from the water at an incredible speed. Before I have time to realize what’s happening, I'm in the air, floating, flying, falling. I hold my breath, pinch my nose and squeeze my eyes shut just before my body meets the water.
Once I hit the water, I let myself become like dead weight as I sink toward the lake floor, feeling the water cooling against my skin the deeper I go. I notice how everything becomes quiet around me and wonder for the briefest moment if this water-masked silence is what it was like for Trudy.
There, at the bottom of the lake I wait for the poisonous snake, knowing that if it hasn’t gotten to one of my family members yet, then it’s sure to come and find me. I brace myself to feel the pierce of its fangs against my flesh, to feel it’s venom running through my veins, to see the Grim Reaper appear before me, finally come to reap his third.
But the snake does not find me, and neither does the Grim Reaper. But I am running out of air.
I push my feet off the lake's bottom. Shooting towards the sun, I break the water's edge as I inhale deeply and open my eyes.
Everyone is laughing, even my grandma and great grandma who are now waving to me from the lake shore. They are not afraid, I notice. They are not worried. They are not thinking about the Grim Reaper, or about “the third,” or even about death at all. They are simply alive. Right here, right now. And I think what a thing that is to be.
I wave wildly back as a breeze rustles the trees around the lake. I feel a blast of cool air sweep through the hole of my missing canine tooth, and I know I’m smiling. I’m laughing, too.
For the first time in weeks, I release thoughts about “the third,” about the Grim Reaper, and even about death. Instead, I think about how I too, right here, right now, am alive.
I swim towards my grandpa, because out from under the weight of fear I want nothing more than to fly again. But Farrah beats me, her floaties bobbing as she awkwardly doggy paddles towards my grandpa, shouting, “me next, grandpa! Throw me next!”
— KATIE LICAVOLI
Katie Licavoli lives and writes in West Michigan. She is in her final semester of earning her Master of Fine Arts in fiction through the Mountainview Low-Residency program, where she is currently working on her debut novel, a literary coming-of-age sports story, alongside a Michigan-based short story collection. Her fiction has appeared in HeartWood, and her novel-in-progress was a longlist finalist for the ProWritingAid Novel Beginnings contest in May 2026, placing in the top 1% of entries.