I speed across Sugar Island in the Jeep I share with my sister. The rising sun escapes the tree line to my left. I adjust the sun visor against the blinding brightness. It’s what good drivers are supposed to do: minimize distractions.

Focusing on the road ahead, I watch for cultural-camp signage. Next to me, Pauline makes a production of craning her neck to check the speedometer, shaking her head, and sighing. I take it as a challenge, smoothly shifting into fifth gear while rounding a corner. The tires squeal.

“Remember what Auntie Daunis said,” she warns.

“About our birthday gift that came with a bonus scolding?” I say.

“‘Happy Sweet Sixteen, my girls.’” Pauline imitates Auntie’s slightly deeper voice. “‘Enjoy this good pony, but—’”

I interrupt, practically growling, “‘But hear me now. I will repossess her and kick your asses if I catch yous being foolish.’”

We laugh in twin harmony.

I don’t mention Auntie’s next words, directed solely to me: And that includes speeding.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” Pauline says. “It’s not like you have anything going on.”

My sister irritates me like nobody else. I glare at her.

“Hold up. You’re still mad about last week? Seriously? A week of touring universities was torture for poor Perry? It was supposed to inspire you.” She drags out the word: in-spy-yer.

“It cost me a week of fishing!”

She huffs. “Well, I wish you hadn’t come. Then no one would’ve suffered Elvis Junior’s atomic farts.”

I for sure weaponized our stinky dog, who gets hella gassy from people food. I hide my smirk while checking out a faded sign announcing that the Sugar Island Ojibwe Tribe’s cultural camp is a quarter mile ahead.