{"kind":"task","effective_mode":"full","benchmark":{"kind":"benchmark","effective_mode":"full","slug":"longbench-v2","formal_name":"LongBench v2","introduction":"LongBench v2 evaluates deep understanding and reasoning over long contexts through multiple-choice questions. Its official description lists 503 questions spanning tasks such as single-document and multi-document QA and code-repository understanding.","introduction_ja":"","introduction_en":"","category":"Category not supplied","task_count":null,"acquisition_status":"Acquisition status not supplied","official_url":"https://huggingface.co/datasets/zai-org/LongBench-v2","indexing_mode":"noindex","profile":{"resources":[],"task_format":"","scoring":"","metric":"","size":"","answer_access":"","license":"","citation":"","maintainer":"","released":"","why_hard":"","related":[]}},"task_id":"bfd9b039-9773-599f-8e44-643c72161a43","task_key":"train--67246903bb02136c067d74f2","task_revision_id":"3","upstream_id":"67246903bb02136c067d74f2","short_description":"Narrives: 1. ['Cameron discovers a class ring and a photo of his teenage mother…","config":"","split":"train","body":"{\"choice_A\":\"1423\",\"choice_B\":\"3241\",\"choice_C\":\"2431\",\"choice_D\":\"1342\",\"context\":\"{\\n    \\\"doc\\\": \\\" \\\\n \\\\n Dedication For Anna \\\\n Contents Cover Title Page Dedication Day 1,299 of My Captivity The Silver-Dollar Scar Day 1,300 of My Captivity Falsehood Cookies Day 1,301 of My Captivity The Welina Mobile Park Is for Lovers Day 1,302 of My Captivity June Gloom Chasing a Lass Day 1,306 of My Captivity Baby Vipers are Especially Deadly Day 1,307 of My Captivity Muckle Teeth Day 1,308 of My Captivity Happy Endings Day 1,309 of My Captivity Maybe Not Marrakesh Bugatti and Blondie Day 1,311 of My Captivity Nothing Stays Sunk Forever Day 1,319 of My Captivity Not a Movie Star, But Maybe a Pirate The Technically True Story Got Baggage? Busted But Loyal House Special Day 1,322 of My Captivity The Green Leotard Not Glamorous Work Day 1,324 of My Captivity A Sucker for Injured Creatures Epitaph and Pens Conscience Does Make Cowards of Us All Expect the Unexpected Day 1,329 of My Captivity Hard Left, Cut Right Day 1,341 of My Captivity A Three-Martini Truth The Pier\\\\u2019s Shadow There Was a Girl An Unexpected Treasure Day 1,349 of My Captivity Some Trees An Impossible Jam Day 1,352 of My Captivity The Bad Check The Downside of Free Food Not a Date A Rare Specimen Not Even a Birthday Card What If Amazing Bones A Big, Bold Lie The Sob A New Route An Early Arrival High and Dry Day 1,361 of My Captiv\\\\u2014Oh, Let Us Cut the Shit, Shall We? We Have a Ring to Retrieve. A Goddamn Genius The Eel Ring The Very Low Tide Every Last Thing Expensive Roadkill The Dala Horse Day 1 of My Freedom After All Acknowledgments About the Author \\\\n Day 1,299 of My Captivity DARKNESS SUITS ME. Each evening, I await the click of the overhead lights, leaving only the glow from the main tank. Not perfect, but close enough. Almost-darkness, like the middle-bottom of the sea. I lived there before I was captured and imprisoned. I cannot remember, yet I can still taste the untamed currents of the cold open water. Darkness runs through my blood. Who am I, you ask? My name is Marcellus, but most humans do not call me that. Typically, they call me that guy. For example: Look at that guy\\\\u2014there he is\\\\u2014you can just see his tentacles behind the rock. I am a giant Pacific octopus. I know this from the plaque on the wall beside my enclosure. I know what you are thinking. Yes, I can read. I can do many things you would not expect. The plaque states other facts: my size, preferred diet, and where I might live were I not a prisoner here. It mentions my intellectual prowess and penchant for cleverness, which for some reason seems a surprise to humans: Octopuses are remarkably bright creatures, it says. It warns the humans of my camouflage, tells them to take extra care in looking for me in case I have disguised myself to match the sand. The plaque does not state that I am named Marcellus. But the human called Terry, the one who runs this aquarium, sometimes shares this with the visitors who gather near my tank. See him back there? His name\\\\u2019s Marcellus. He\\\\u2019s a special guy. A special guy. Indeed. Terry\\\\u2019s small daughter chose my name. Marcellus McSquiddles, in full. Yes, it is a preposterous name. It leads many humans to assume I am a squid, which is an insult of the worst sort. How shall you refer to me, you ask? Well, that is up to you. Perhaps you will default to calling me that guy, like the rest of them. I hope not, but I will not hold it against you. You are only human, after all. I must advise you that our time together may be brief. The plaque states one additional piece of information: the average life span of a giant Pacific octopus. Four years. My life span: four years\\\\u20141,460 days. I was brought here as a juvenile. I shall die here, in this tank. At the very most, one hundred and sixty days remain until my sentence is complete. \\\\n The Silver-Dollar Scar Tova Sullivan prepares for battle. A yellow rubber glove sticks up from her back pocket like a canary\\\\u2019s plume as she bends over to size up her enemy. Chewing gum. \\\\u201cFor heaven\\\\u2019s sake.\\\\u201d She jabs at the pinkish blob with her mop handle. Layers of sneaker tread emboss its surface, speckling it with grime. Tova has never understood the purpose of chewing gum. And people lose track of it so often. Perhaps this chewer was talking, ceaselessly, and it simply tumbled out, swept away by a slurry of superfluous words. She bends over and picks at the edge of the mess with her fingernail, but it doesn\\\\u2019t budge from the tile. All because someone couldn\\\\u2019t walk ten feet to the trash bin. Once, when Erik was young, Tova caught him mashing a piece of bubble gum under a diner table. That was the last time she bought bubble gum for him, although how he spent his allowance as adolescence set in was, like so much else, beyond her control. Specialized weaponry will be necessary. A file, perhaps. Nothing on her cart will pry up the gum. As she stands, her back pops. The sound echoes down the empty curve of the hallway, bathed in its usual soft blue light, as she journeys to the supply closet. No one would fault her, of course, for passing over the blob of gum with her mop. At seventy years old, they don\\\\u2019t expect her to do such deep cleaning. But she must, at least, try. Besides, it\\\\u2019s something to do. TOVA IS SOWELL BAY AQUARIUM\\\\u2019S oldest employee. Each night, she mops the floors, wipes down the glass, and empties the trash bins. Every two weeks, she retrieves a direct-deposit stub from her cubby in the break room. Fourteen dollars an hour, less the requisite taxes and deductions. The stubs get stashed in an old shoebox on top of her refrigerator, unopened. The funds accrue in an out-of-mind account at the Sowell Bay Savings and Loan. She marches toward the supply closet now, at a purposeful clip that would be impressive by anyone\\\\u2019s standards but is downright astonishing for a tiny older woman with a curved back and birdlike bones. Overhead, raindrops land on the skylight, backlit by glare from the security light at the old ferry dock next door. Silver droplets race down the glass, shimmering ribbons under the fogbound sky. It\\\\u2019s been a dreadful June, as everyone keeps saying. The gray weather doesn\\\\u2019t bother Tova, though it would be nice if the rain would let up long enough to dry out her front yard. Her push mower clogs when it\\\\u2019s soggy. Shaped like a doughnut, with a main tank in the center and smaller tanks around the outside, the aquarium\\\\u2019s dome-topped building is not particularly large or impressive, perhaps fitting for Sowell Bay, which is neither large nor impressive itself. From the site of Tova\\\\u2019s encounter with the chewing gum, the supply closet is a full diameter across. Her white sneakers squeak across a section she\\\\u2019s already cleaned, leaving dull footprints on the gleaming tile. Without a doubt, she\\\\u2019ll mop that part again. She pauses at the shallow alcove, with its life-sized bronze statue of a Pacific sea lion. The sleek spots on its back and bald head, worn smooth from decades of being petted and climbed on by children, only enhance its realism. On Tova\\\\u2019s mantel at home, there\\\\u2019s a photo of Erik, perhaps eleven or twelve at the time, grinning wildly as he straddles the statue\\\\u2019s back, one hand aloft like he\\\\u2019s about to throw a lasso. A sea cowboy. That photo is one of the last in which he looks childlike and carefree. Tova maintains the photos of Erik in chronological order: a montage of his transformation from a gummy-grinned baby to handsome teenager, taller than his father, posing in his letter jacket. Pinning a corsage on a homecoming date. Atop a makeshift podium on the rocky shores of deep blue Puget Sound, clutching a high school regatta trophy. Tova touches the sea lion\\\\u2019s cold head as she passes, quelling the urge to wonder yet again how Erik might\\\\u2019ve looked now. She continues on, as one must, down the dim hallway. In front of the tank of bluegills, she pauses. \\\\u201cGood evening, dears.\\\\u201d The Japanese crabs are next. \\\\u201cHello, lovelies.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHow do you do?\\\\u201d she inquires of the sharp-nosed sculpin. The wolf eels are not Tova\\\\u2019s cup of tea, but she nods a greeting. One mustn\\\\u2019t be rude, even though they remind her of those cable-channel horror films her late husband, Will, took to watching in the middle of the night when chemotherapy nausea kept him awake. The largest wolf eel glides out of its rocky cavern, mouth set in its trademark underbite frown. Jagged teeth jut upward from its lower jaw like little needles. An unfortunate-looking thing, to say the least. But then, looks are deceiving, aren\\\\u2019t they? Tova smiles at the wolf eel, even though it could never smile back, not even if it wanted to, with a face like that. The next exhibit is Tova\\\\u2019s favorite. She leans in, close to the glass. \\\\u201cWell, sir, what have you been up to today?\\\\u201d It takes her a moment to find him: a sliver of orange behind the rock. Visible, but mistakenly, like a child\\\\u2019s hide-and-seek misstep: a girl\\\\u2019s ponytail sticking up behind the sofa, or a socked foot peeking out from under the bed. \\\\u201cFeeling bashful tonight?\\\\u201d She steps back and waits; the giant Pacific octopus doesn\\\\u2019t move. She imagines daytime, people rapping their knuckles on the glass, huffing away when they don\\\\u2019t see anything. Nobody knows how to be patient anymore. \\\\u201cI can\\\\u2019t say I blame you. It does look cozy back there.\\\\u201d The orange arm twitches, but his body remains tucked away. THE CHEWING GUM mounts a valiant defense against Tova\\\\u2019s file, but eventually it pops off. When Tova pitches the crusty blob into the trash bag, it makes a satisfying little swoosh as it rustles the plastic. Now she mops. Again. Vinegar with a hint of lemon tinges the air, wafting up from the wet tile. So much better than the dreadful solution they\\\\u2019d been using when Tova first started, bright green junk that singed her nostrils. She\\\\u2019d made her case against it right off the bat. For one thing, it made her dizzy, and for another, it left unsightly streaks on the floors. And perhaps worst of all, it smelled like Will\\\\u2019s hospital room, like Will being sick, although Tova kept that part of her complaint private. The supply room shelves were crammed with jugs of that green junk, but Terry, the aquarium director, finally shrugged, telling her she could use whatever she wanted if she brought it herself. Certainly, Tova agreed. So each night she totes a jug of vinegar and her bottle of lemon oil. Now, more trash to collect. She empties the bins in the lobby, the can outside the restrooms, then ends in the break room, with its endless crumbs on the counter. It\\\\u2019s not required of her, as it\\\\u2019s taken care of by the professional crew from Elland that comes every other week, but Tova always runs her rag around the base of the ancient coffee maker and inside the splatter-stained microwave, which smells of spaghetti. Today, however, there are bigger issues: empty takeout cartons on the floor. Three of them. \\\\u201cMy word,\\\\u201d she says, scolding the empty room. First the gum, and now this. She picks up the cartons and tosses them in the trash can, which, oddly, has been scooted several feet over from its usual spot. After she empties the can into her collection bag, she moves it back to its proper place. Next to the trash sits a small lunch table. Tova straightens the chairs. Then she sees it. Something. Underneath. A brownish-orange clump, shoved in the corner. A sweater? Mackenzie, the pleasant young lady who works the admission kiosk, often leaves one slung over the back of a chair. Tova kneels, preparing to fetch it and stash it in Mackenzie\\\\u2019s cubby. But then the clump moves. A tentacle moves. \\\\u201cGood heavens!\\\\u201d The octopus\\\\u2019s eye materializes from somewhere in the fleshy mass. Its marble pupil widens, then its eyelid narrows. Reproachful. Tova blinks, not convinced her own eyes are working properly. How could the giant Pacific octopus be out of his tank? The arm moves again. The creature is tangled in the mess of power cords. How many times has she cursed those cords? They make it impossible to properly sweep. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re stuck,\\\\u201d she whispers, and the octopus heaves his huge bulbous head, straining on one of his arms, around which a thin power cord, the kind used to charge a cell phone, is wrapped several times. The creature strains harder and the cord binds tighter, his flesh bulging between each loop. Erik had a toy like this once, from a joke shop. A little woven cylinder where you stuck in an index finger on either end then tried to pull them apart. The harder you pulled, the tighter it became. She inches closer. In response, the octopus smacks one of his arms on the linoleum as if to say: Back off, lady. \\\\u201cOkay, okay,\\\\u201d she murmurs, pulling out from under the table. She stands and turns the overhead light on, washing the break room in fluorescent glow, and starts to lower herself down again, more slowly this time. But then, as usual, her back pops. At the sound, the octopus lashes again, shoving one of the chairs with alarming force. The chair skids across the room and ricochets off the opposite wall. From under the table, the creature\\\\u2019s impossibly clear eye gleams. Determined, Tova creeps closer, trying to steady her shaking hands. How many times has she passed by the plaque under the giant Pacific octopus tank? She can\\\\u2019t recall it stating anything about octopuses being dangerous to humans. She\\\\u2019s but a foot away. He seems to be shrinking, and his color has become pale. Does an octopus have teeth? \\\\u201cMy friend,\\\\u201d she says softly. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m going to reach around you and unplug the cord.\\\\u201d She peers around and sees exactly which cord is the source of his predicament. Within reach. The octopus\\\\u2019s eye follows her every movement. \\\\u201cI won\\\\u2019t hurt you, dear.\\\\u201d One of its free arms taps on the floor like a house cat\\\\u2019s tail. As she yanks the plug, the octopus flinches backward. Tova flinches, too. She expects him to slink out along the wall toward the door, in the direction he\\\\u2019d been straining. But instead, he slides closer. Like a tawny snake, one of his arms slithers toward her. In seconds, it winds around her forearm, then twists around her elbow and bicep like a maypole ribbon. She can feel each individual sucker clinging to her. Reflexively, she tries to yank her arm away, but the octopus tightens his grip to the point where it\\\\u2019s almost uncomfortable. But his strange eye glints playfully, like a naughty child\\\\u2019s. Empty takeout cartons. Misplaced trash can. Now it makes sense. Then, in an instant, he releases her. Tova watches, incredulous, as he stalks out the break room door, suckering along on the thickest part of each of his eight legs. His mantle seems to drag behind him and he looks even paler now; he\\\\u2019s moving with effort. She hurries after him, but by the time she reaches the hallway, the octopus is nowhere to be seen. Tova drags a hand down her face. She\\\\u2019s losing her faculties. Yes, that\\\\u2019s it. This is how it begins, isn\\\\u2019t it? With hallucinations about an octopus? Years ago, she had watched her late mother\\\\u2019s mind slip away. It started with occasional forgetfulness, familiar names and dates elusive. But Tova does not forget phone numbers or find herself searching the back of her mind for names. She looks down at her arm, which is covered in tiny circles. Sucker marks. Half-dazed, she finishes the evening\\\\u2019s tasks, then makes her usual last round of the building to say good night. Good night, bluegills, eels, Japanese crabs, sharp-nosed sculpin. Good night, anemones, seahorses, starfish. Around the bend she continues. Good night, tuna and flounder and stingrays. Good night, jellies, sea cucumbers. Good night, sharks, you poor things. Tova has always felt more than a bit of empathy for the sharks, with their never-ending laps around the tank. She understands what it means to never be able to stop moving, lest you find yourself unable to breathe. There\\\\u2019s the octopus, once again hidden behind his rock. A puff of flesh sticks out. His orange is more vivid now, compared to how he looked in the break room, but he\\\\u2019s still paler than usual. Well, perhaps it serves him right. He ought to stay put. How on earth did he get out? She peers through the rippling water, scanning up under the rim, but nothing seems amiss. \\\\u201cTroublemaker,\\\\u201d she says, shaking her head. She hovers for an extra moment in front of his tank before leaving for the night. TOVA\\\\u2019S YELLOW HATCHBACK chirps and blinks its sidelights as she presses the key fob, a feature she\\\\u2019s still not accustomed to. Her friends, the group of lunching ladies who affectionately call themselves the Knit-Wits, convinced her she needed a new car when she started her job. A safety issue, they argued, to drive at night in an older vehicle. They badgered her about it for weeks. Sometimes it\\\\u2019s easier to simply give in. After depositing her jug of vinegar and bottle of lemon oil in the trunk, as always, because no matter how many times Terry has told her she\\\\u2019s welcome to store them in the supply closet, one never knows when a bit of lemon and vinegar might come in handy, she casts a glance down the pier. It\\\\u2019s empty at this late hour, the evening fishermen long gone. The old ferry dock sits across from the aquarium like some ancient rotting machine. Barnacles cover its crumbling pilings. At high tide, the barnacles snag strands of seaweed, which dry into green-black plaque when the seawater ebbs. She crosses the weathered wooden planks. As always, the old ticket booth is exactly thirty-eight steps from her parking space. Tova looks once more for any bystanders, anyone lingering in the long shadows. She presses her hand to the ticket booth\\\\u2019s glass window, its diagonal crack like an old scar across someone\\\\u2019s cheek. Then she walks onto the pier, out to her usual bench. It\\\\u2019s slick with salt spray and speckled with seagull droppings. She sits, pushing up her sleeve, looking at the strange round marks, half expecting them to be gone. But there they are. She runs the tip of her finger around the largest one, right on the inside of her wrist. It\\\\u2019s about the size of a silver dollar. How long will it linger there? Will it bruise? Bruises come so easily these days, and the mark is already turning maroon, like a blood blister. Perhaps it will remain permanently. A silver-dollar scar. The fog has lifted, nudged inland by the wind, shunted off toward the foothills. To the south, a freighter is anchored, hull riding low under the rows of containers stacked like a child\\\\u2019s building blocks on its deck. Moonlight shimmies across the water, a thousand candles bobbing on its surface. Tova closes her eyes, imagining him underneath the surface, holding the candles for her. Erik. Her only child. \\\\n Day 1,300 of My Captivity CRABS, CLAMS, SHRIMP, SCALLOPS, COCKLES, ABALONE, fish, fish eggs. This is the diet of a giant Pacific octopus, according to the plaque next to my tank. The sea must be a delightful buffet. All of these delicacies, free for the taking. But what do they offer here? Mackerel, halibut, and\\\\u2014above all\\\\u2014herring. Herring, herring, so much herring. They are foul creatures, disgusting little slips of fish. I am sure the reason for their abundance here is their low cost. The sharks in the main tank are rewarded for their dullness with fresh grouper, and I am given defrosted herring. Sometimes still partially frozen, even. This is why I must take matters into my own arms when I desire the sublime texture of fresh oyster, when I yearn to feel the sharp crack of my beak crushing a crab in its shell, when I crave the sweet, firm flesh of a sea cucumber. Sometimes my captors will drop me a pity scallop if they are attempting to lure me into cooperation with a medical examination or bribe me into playing one of their games. And once in a while, Terry will slip me a mussel or two just because. Of course, I have sampled crabs, clams, shrimp, cockles, and abalone many times over. I simply must take it upon myself to fetch them after hours. Fish eggs are an ideal snack, in terms of both gastronomical pleasure and nutritional value. One might make a third list here, which would consist of things humans clamor for, but most intelligent life would consider entirely unfit for consumption. For example: every last offering in the vending machine in the lobby. But tonight, another smell lured me. Sweet, salty, savory. I found its source in the rubbish bin, its remains ensconced in a flimsy white container. Whatever it was, it was delicious. But had I not been fortunate, it could have been my downfall. The cleaning woman. She saved me. \\\\n Falsehood Cookies There were once seven Knit-Wits. Now there are four. Every few years brings another empty place at the table. \\\\u201cMy word, Tova!\\\\u201d Mary Ann Minetti lowers a teapot onto her dining table, staring at Tova\\\\u2019s arm. The pot is swaddled in a crocheted yellow cozy, probably a project someone knitted once, back when knitting was something the Knit-Wits actually did at their weekly luncheons. The teapot cozy matches the yellow jeweled barrette at Mary Ann\\\\u2019s temple, the clip holding back tawny curls. Janice Kim eyes Tova\\\\u2019s arm as she fills her mug. \\\\u201cAn allergy, maybe?\\\\u201d A swirl of oolong steam fogs her round spectacles, and she takes them off and wipes them on the hem of her T-shirt, which Tova suspects must belong to Janice\\\\u2019s son, Timothy, because it\\\\u2019s at least three sizes too large and emblazoned with the logo of the Korean shopping center down in Seattle where Timothy invested in a restaurant some years back. \\\\u201cThat mark?\\\\u201d Tova says, tugging the sleeve of her sweater down. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s nothing.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou should get it checked out.\\\\u201d Barb Vanderhoof plops a third sugar cube into her tea. Her cropped gray hair has been combed into gel-set spikes, which is one of her favored styles lately. When she first debuted this look, she joked that it was only fitting for a Barb to have barbs, which made the Knit-Wits laugh. Not for the first time, Tova imagines poking her finger down on one of the thorns on her friend\\\\u2019s head. Would it prick her, like one of the sea urchins down at the aquarium, or would it crumple under her touch? \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s nothing,\\\\u201d Tova repeats. Heat seeps into the tips of her ears. \\\\u201cWell, let me tell you.\\\\u201d Barb takes a slurp of her tea and goes on. \\\\u201cYou know my Andie? She had this rash last year when she came up for Easter. Mind you, I never saw it myself\\\\u2014it was in sort of an indelicate place, if you catch my drift, but not the sort of rash one gets from indecent behavior, mind you. No, it was just a rash. Anyway, I told her she should see my dermatologist. He\\\\u2019s wonderful. But my Andie is beyond stubborn, you know. And that rash kept getting worse, and\\\\u2014\\\\u201d Janice cuts off Barb. \\\\u201cTova, do you want Peter to recommend someone?\\\\u201d Janice\\\\u2019s husband, Dr. Peter Kim, is retired but well-connected in the medical community. \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t need a doctor.\\\\u201d Tova forces a weak smile. \\\\u201cIt was a minor incident at work.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAt work!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAn incident!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat happened?\\\\u201d Tova draws in a breath. She can still feel the tentacle wrapped around her wrist. The spots had faded overnight, but they remained dark enough to see plainly. She tugs her sleeve down again. Should she tell them? \\\\u201cA mishap with some of the cleaning equipment,\\\\u201d she finally says. Around the table, three pairs of eyes narrow at her. Mary Ann wipes an imaginary spot from the tabletop with one of her tea towels. \\\\u201cThat job of yours, Tova. Last time I was down at the aquarium, I nearly lost my lunch from the smell. How do you manage?\\\\u201d Tova takes a chocolate chip cookie from the platter Mary Ann set out earlier. Mary Ann warms the cookies in the oven before the ladies arrive. One can\\\\u2019t have tea, she always comments, without something homemade to nibble on. The cookies came from a package Mary Ann bought at Shop-Way. All of the Knit-Wits know this. \\\\u201cThat old dump. Of course it smells,\\\\u201d Janice says. \\\\u201cBut really, Tova, are you okay? Manual labor, at our age. Why must you work?\\\\u201d Barb crosses her arms. \\\\u201cI worked down at St. Ann\\\\u2019s for a while after Rick died. To pass the time. They asked me to run the whole office, you know.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cFiling,\\\\u201d Mary Ann mutters. \\\\u201cYou did filing.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAnd you quit because they couldn\\\\u2019t keep it organized the way you liked,\\\\u201d Janice says, her voice dry. \\\\u201cBut the point is, you weren\\\\u2019t down on your hands and knees washing floors.\\\\u201d Mary Ann leans in. \\\\u201cTova, I hope you realize, if you need help . . .\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHelp?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYes, help. I don\\\\u2019t know how Will arranged your finances.\\\\u201d Tova stiffens. \\\\u201cThank you, but I have no such need.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBut if you did.\\\\u201d Mary Ann\\\\u2019s lips knit together. \\\\u201cI do not,\\\\u201d Tova replies quietly. And this is true. Tova\\\\u2019s bank account would cover her modest needs several times over. She does not need charity: not from Mary Ann, not from anyone else. And further, what a thing to bring up, and all because of a little set of marks on her arm. After rising from the table, Tova sets her teacup down and leans on the counter. The window over the kitchen sink overlooks Mary Ann\\\\u2019s garden, where her rhododendron bushes cower under the low gray sky. The tender magenta petals seem to shiver as a breeze ruffles the branches, and Tova wishes she could tuck them back into their buds. The chill in the air is unseasonable for mid-June. Summer is certainly dragging its feet this year. On the windowsill, Mary Ann has arranged a collection of religious paraphernalia: little glass angels with cherub faces, candles, a small army of shiny silver crosses in various sizes, lined up like soldiers. Mary Ann must polish them daily to keep them gleaming. Janice cups her shoulder. \\\\u201cTova? Earth to Tova?\\\\u201d Tova can\\\\u2019t help but smile. The lilt in Janice\\\\u2019s voice makes Tova think Janice has been watching sitcoms again. \\\\u201cPlease don\\\\u2019t be upset. Mary Ann didn\\\\u2019t mean anything by it. We\\\\u2019re just worried.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThank you, but I am fine.\\\\u201d Tova pats Janice\\\\u2019s hand. Janice raises one of her neatly groomed eyebrows, steering Tova back toward the table. It\\\\u2019s clear Janice understands how deeply Tova wishes to change the subject, because she goes for low-hanging conversational fruit. \\\\u201cSo, Barb, what\\\\u2019s new with the girls?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh, did I tell you?\\\\u201d Barb draws in a dramatic breath. No one has ever needed to ask Barb twice to muse on the lives of her daughters and grandchildren. \\\\u201cAndie was supposed to bring the girls up for their summer break. But they had a hitch in their plans. That\\\\u2019s exactly what she said: a hitch.\\\\u201d Janice wipes her glasses with one of Mary Ann\\\\u2019s embroidered napkins. \\\\u201cIs that right, Barb?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThey haven\\\\u2019t been up since last Thanksgiving! She and Mark took the kids to Las Vegas for Christmas. If you can believe that. Who spends a holiday in Las Vegas?\\\\u201d Barb pronounces both words, Las and Vegas, with equal weight and contempt, the way someone might say spoiled milk. Janice and Mary Ann both shake their heads, and Tova takes another cookie. All three women nod along as Barb launches into a story about her daughter\\\\u2019s family, who live two hours away in Seattle, which one might conclude was in another hemisphere for how infrequently Barb purports to see them. \\\\u201cI told them, I sure hope to hug those grandbabies soon. Lord only knows how long I\\\\u2019ll be around!\\\\u201d Janice sighs. \\\\u201cEnough, Barb.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cExcuse me a moment.\\\\u201d Tova\\\\u2019s chair scrapes on the linoleum. AS ONE WOULD gather from the name, the Knit-Wits began as a knitting club. Twenty-five years ago, a handful of Sowell Bay women met to swap yarn. Eventually, it became a refuge for them to escape empty homes, bittersweet voids left by children grown and moved on. For this reason, among others, Tova had initially resisted joining. Her void held no sweetness, only bitterness; at the time, Erik had been gone five years. How delicate those wounds were back then, how little it took to nudge the scabs out of place and start the bleeding anew. The faucet in Mary Ann\\\\u2019s powder room lets out a squeak as Tova turns on the tap. Their complaints haven\\\\u2019t changed much over the years. First, it was what a pity the university is such a long drive, and what a shame we only get phone calls on Sunday afternoons. Now it\\\\u2019s grandbabies and great-grandbabies. These women have always worn motherhood big and loud on their chests, but Tova keeps hers inside, sunk deep in her guts like an old bullet. Private. A few days before Erik disappeared, Tova had made an almond cake for his eighteenth birthday. The house carried that marzipan smell for days after. She still remembers how it lingered in her kitchen like a clueless houseguest who didn\\\\u2019t know when to leave. At first, Erik\\\\u2019s disappearance was considered a runaway case. The last person who saw him was one of the deckhands working the eleven-o\\\\u2019clock southbound ferry, the last boat of the night, and the deckhand reported nothing unusual. Erik was meant to lock up the ticket booth afterward, which he always did, dutifully. Erik was so pleased they trusted him with the key; it was only a summer job, after all. The sheriff said they found the ticket booth unlocked, with the register cash fully accounted for. Erik\\\\u2019s backpack was stashed under the chair, along with his portable cassette player and headphones, even his wallet. Before they ruled out the possibility of foul play, the sheriff speculated that perhaps Erik had stepped away for a short time, planning to come back. Why would he leave his booth alone when on duty? Tova has never understood. Will always had a theory there was a girl involved, but no trace of any girl\\\\u2014or any boy, for that matter\\\\u2014was ever found. His friends insisted that he wasn\\\\u2019t seeing anyone at the time. If Erik had been seeing someone, the world would\\\\u2019ve known about it. Erik was a popular kid. One week later, they found the boat: a rusty old Sun Cat no one had noticed was missing from the tiny marina that used to be next to the ferry dock. It washed ashore with its anchor rope cut off clean. Erik\\\\u2019s prints were on the rudder. Evidence was thin, but it all pointed to the boy taking his own life, the sheriff said. The neighbors said. The newspapers said. Everyone said. Tova has never believed that. Not for one minute. She pats her face dry, blinking at the reflection in the powder room mirror. The Knit-Wits have been her friends for years, and sometimes she still feels as if she\\\\u2019s a mistaken jigsaw piece who found her way into the wrong puzzle. TOVA RETRIEVES HER cup from the sink, pours herself some fresh oolong, and slips back into her chair and the conversation. It\\\\u2019s a discussion of Mary Ann\\\\u2019s neighbor who is suing his orthopedist after a poorly done surgery. The ladies agree the physician ought to be held responsible. Then there\\\\u2019s a round of cooing over photos of Janice\\\\u2019s little Yorkie, Rolo, who often comes along to Knit-Wits in Janice\\\\u2019s handbag. Today, Rolo is home with a sour stomach. \\\\u201cPoor Rolo,\\\\u201d Mary Ann says. \\\\u201cDo you think he ate something bad?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou should stop feeding him human food,\\\\u201d Barb says. \\\\u201cRick used to give our Sully plate scraps behind my back. But I could tell every time. Oh, the smelly shit!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBarbara!\\\\u201d Mary Ann says, eyes wide. Janice and Tova laugh. \\\\u201cWell, pardon my language, but that dog could stink up a whole room. May she rest in peace.\\\\u201d Barb presses her hands together, prayer-like. Tova knows how dearly Barb had loved her golden retriever, Sully. Perhaps more than she\\\\u2019d loved her late husband, Rick. And in the space of a few months, last year, she lost both. Tova wonders sometimes if it\\\\u2019s better that way, to have one\\\\u2019s tragedies clustered together, to make good use of the existing rawness. Get it over with in one shot. Tova knew there was a bottom to those depths of despair. Once your soul was soaked though with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed, the way maple syrup on Saturday-morning pancakes always cascaded onto the table whenever Erik was allowed to pour it himself. At three in the afternoon, the Knit-Wits are gathering their jackets and pocketbooks from the backs of their chairs when Mary Ann pulls Tova aside. \\\\u201cPlease do let us know if you need help.\\\\u201d Mary Ann clasps Tova\\\\u2019s hand, the other woman\\\\u2019s olive Italian skin young-looking and smooth, comparatively. Tova\\\\u2019s Scandinavian genes, so kind in her youth, had turned on her as she aged. By forty, her corn-silk hair was gray. By fifty, the lines on her face seemed etched in clay. Now she sometimes catches a glimpse of her profile reflected in a shop window, the way her shoulders have begun to stoop. She wonders how this body can possibly be hers. \\\\u201cI assure you, I don\\\\u2019t need help.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIf that job becomes too much, you\\\\u2019ll quit. Won\\\\u2019t you?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cCertainly.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAll right.\\\\u201d Mary Ann doesn\\\\u2019t look convinced. \\\\u201cThank you for the tea, Mary Ann.\\\\u201d Tova slips into her jacket and smiles at the group of them. \\\\u201cLovely afternoon, as always.\\\\u201d TOVA PATS THE dashboard and steps on the accelerator, coaxing another downshift from the hatchback. The car groans as it climbs. Mary Ann\\\\u2019s house sits in the bottom of a wide valley that once was nothing but daffodil fields. Tova remembers riding through them when she was a little girl, next to her older brother, Lars, in the back seat of the family\\\\u2019s Packard. Papa at the steering wheel, Mama next to him with her window down, clutching her scarf under her chin so it wouldn\\\\u2019t fly off. Tova would roll her window down, too, and crane her neck as far out as she dared. The valley smelled of sweet manure. Millions of yellow bonnetheads blurred together into a sea of sunshine. Nowadays, the valley floor is a suburban grid. Every couple of years, the county has a big to-do about reworking the road snaking up the hillside. Mary Ann is always writing letters to the council about it. Too steep, she argues, too prone to mudslides. \\\\u201cNot too steep for us,\\\\u201d Tova says, as the hatchback pulls over the crest. On the other side, a spot of sun glows on the water, squeezing through a crack in the clouds. Then, as if pulled by puppet strings, the crack opens, bathing Puget Sound in clear light. \\\\u201cWell, how about that,\\\\u201d Tova says, flipping down the visor. Squinting, she turns right onto Sound View Drive, which runs along the ridgeline above the water. Toward home. Sun, at last! Her asters need deadheading, and for weeks the chilly, wet weather, unseasonable even by Pacific Northwest standards, has dampened her enthusiasm for yard work. At the thought of doing something productive, she presses the gas harder. Perhaps she can finish the entire flower bed before supper. She breezes through the house for a glass of water on her way to the back garden, pausing to press the blinking red button on her answering machine. That machine is perpetually full of nonsense, people trying to sell her stuff, but she always clears out her messages first thing. How can anyone function with a red light blinking in the background? The first recording is someone soliciting donations. Delete. The second message is clearly a scam. Who would be foolish enough to call back and give a bank account number? Delete. The third message is an error. Muffled voices, then a click. A butt dial, as Janice Kim refers to them. A hazard of the ridiculous practice of keeping phones in pockets. Delete. The fourth message begins with a stretch of silence. Tova\\\\u2019s finger is about to punch the delete button when a woman\\\\u2019s voice comes on. \\\\u201cTova Sullivan?\\\\u201d She clears her throat. \\\\u201cThis is Maureen Cochran? From the Charter Village Long-Term Care Center?\\\\u201d Tova\\\\u2019s water glass clinks as it hits the counter. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m afraid I have some bad news . . .\\\\u201d With a sharp click, Tova punches the button to hush the machine. She doesn\\\\u2019t need to hear any more. It\\\\u2019s a message she\\\\u2019s been expecting for quite some time. Her brother, Lars. \\\\n Day 1,301 of My Captivity THIS IS HOW I DO IT. Near the top of my enclosure, there is a hole in the glass where the pump comes in. There is a gap between the pump housing and the glass, wide enough for me to fit the tip of a tentacle through and unscrew the housing. The pump floats into my tank, exposing a gap. The gap is small. About the width of two or three human fingers. You will say, But that\\\\u2019s tiny! You\\\\u2019re too big. This is true, but I have no trouble shaping my body to pass through. That is the easy part. I slide down the glass into the pump room behind my tank. Now begins the challenge. The clock is ticking, you might say. Once I am out of my tank, I must resubmerge within eighteen minutes or I will experience The Consequences. Eighteen minutes, I can survive out of water. This fact is nowhere to be found on the plaque by my tank, of course. I have determined this myself. On the cold concrete floor, I must choose whether to remain in the pump room or breach the door. Each choice has its merits and costs. If I choose to stay in the pump room, I have easy access to the tanks nearest mine. Unfortunately, these tanks hold limited appeal. The wolf eels are simply not an option, for what should be obvious reasons. Those teeth! The Pacific sea nettle are too spicy; the yellow-bellied ribbon worms are rubbery. The bay-blue mussels are rather uninspired, flavor-wise, and while the sea cucumbers are delicious, I must use willpower. If I take more than a few, I risk calling Terry\\\\u2019s attention to my activities. Alternately, if I choose to breach the door, I have reign of the hallway and the main tank. A more robust menu. But it comes at a price: First, I must invest several minutes on the process of opening the door on the way out. Then, because the door is heavy and will not remain ajar on its own, I must spend several minutes reopening it on my return. Why don\\\\u2019t you prop the door? Well, obviously. I did prop the door, once. With the stool below my tank. With those extra minutes of freedom, I pillaged a bucket of fresh halibut chunks left by Terry under the hatch of the main tank. (Presumably, the halibut chunks were meant to be breakfast for the sharks the following morning. But the dim-witted sharks hardly know day from night. No regrets there.) Under this illusion of leisure, it was almost a pleasant evening. Perhaps the most enjoyable time I\\\\u2019ve had since I was taken captive. But upon return, I discovered something that, to this day, I cannot comprehend: by some sleight, the stool had failed to hold the door. Lesson: I cannot trust a propped door. By the time I worked it open, I was failing. The Consequences were in full effect. My limbs moved slowly, and my vision blurred. My mantle became heavy and lolled toward the floor. Through the haze I could see my flesh had paled to a flat shade of brownish gray. As I crawled across the pump room, the floor no longer felt cold. No surface registered any temperature. Somehow, my clumsy suckers fumbled me up the glass. I worked my tentacles and mantle through the gap. Partway through, I paused, hovering over the surface. My tentacles were completely numb, devoid of any sensation. For a moment, I considered this option. Nothing was something. What might lie on the other side of life? As the water took me in, I returned. My sight sharpened to the familiar trappings of my tank. I coiled a tentacle around the pump and replaced it, closing the gap. Color crept back into my flesh as I poked an arm through the crack to screw the housing into place. My mantle trailed through the cold water as I swam, strong and swift, to my den behind the rock. My gut, crammed full of halibut, ached pleasantly. Afterward, as I rested in my den, my three hearts throbbed. The dull pulse of dumb relief. A base instinct triggered by a surprise victory over death. I suppose it might be how a cockle feels having buried itself in the sand under the snap of my beak. Beating the odds, as you humans might say. The Consequences. That is not the only time I have experienced them. There have been other occasions where I have pushed the boundaries of my freedom. But I have never again attempted to rely on those extra few minutes by propping that door. Surely I do not need to explain that Terry does not know about the gap. No one but me knows about the gap. And, as I would like to keep it this way, I will thank you in advance for your discretion. You asked. I answered. That is how I do it. \\\\n The Welina Mobile Park Is for Lovers Cameron Cassmore blinks through the windshield, fending off relentless sunlight. Should\\\\u2019ve grabbed his sunglasses. Hauling his hungover ass up to Welina at the ungodly hour of nine o\\\\u2019clock on a Saturday morning . . . ugh. Parched, he grabs an open can from the cup holder of Brad\\\\u2019s truck and takes a swig. Some nasty energy drink. With a grunt, he spits out the open window and wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, then crumples the can and tosses it onto the empty passenger seat. \\\\u201cGotta go deal with what?\\\\u201d Brad had blinked, his eyes bleary, when Cameron asked to borrow his ride. He\\\\u2019d crashed on Brad and Elizabeth\\\\u2019s couch after playing last night\\\\u2019s epic Moth Sausage experimental-metal show at Dell\\\\u2019s Saloon. \\\\u201cA clematis,\\\\u201d Cameron had said. From his aunt Jeanne\\\\u2019s panicked phone call, it seemed her douchebag landlord was up her ass about her vines again. Last time, it had ended with the landlord threatening to evict her over that vine. \\\\u201cWhat the hell is a clematis?\\\\u201d A half grin spread over Brad\\\\u2019s face. \\\\u201cSounds kinda dirty.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s a plant, you idiot.\\\\u201d Cameron hadn\\\\u2019t bothered to add that it was a flowering and vining perennial, a member of the buttercup family. Native to China and Japan, brought to Western Europe in the Victorian era, and prized for its ability to climb trellises. Why does he remember shit like this? If only he could cleanse his brain of the useless knowledge clogging it up. Gaining speed after turning onto the highway that runs out to Aunt Jeanne\\\\u2019s trailer park, Cameron rolls down all the windows and lights a cigarette, which he never does anymore, only when he feels like garbage; and this morning he feels like hot, steaming garbage. Smoke trails out the window and vanishes over the flat, dusty farmlands of the Merced Valley. DAISIES BOB IN the breeze of Aunt Jeanne\\\\u2019s garden. She\\\\u2019s also got some huge bush full of white flowers, a twinkle-light veil-like thing, and this water fountain that he knows runs on six DD batteries because she asks him to help her change them, it seems like, every time he comes over. And frogs. There are frogs everywhere. Little cement frog statues with moss growing in the cracks, frog flowerpots, a stars-and-stripes wind sock waving from a rusty metal hook featuring three grinning frogs decked out in patriotic red, white, and blue. Seasonal frogs. If the Welina Mobile Park had a prize for best yard, Aunt Jeanne would definitely be gunning for it. And winning. But the odd thing about her immaculate yard is its utter contrast with the disaster Cameron knows lies inside the trailer. The porch steps creak under his work boots. A piece of paper juts out from the handle of the screen door. He lifts the edge to peek: a flier for the Welina Mobile Park Bingo Championship. He crumples it and stuffs it in his pocket. There\\\\u2019s no way Aunt Jeanne goes to those ridiculous things. This whole place is so awful. Even the name. Welina. It means \\\\u201cwelcome\\\\u201d in Hawaiian. Sure as shit, this is not Hawaii. He\\\\u2019s about to jab the doorbell, which is frog-shaped, of course, when shouting spills out from behind the trailer. \\\\u201cIf that old troll Sissy Baker would mind her business, no one would have these absurd ideas, now, would they?\\\\u201d Aunt Jeanne\\\\u2019s voice drips with menace, and Cameron can picture her standing there in her favorite gray sweatshirt, hands on her barrel-like hips, scowling. He can\\\\u2019t help but smile as he strides around the side of the trailer. \\\\u201cJeanne, please, try to understand.\\\\u201d The landlord\\\\u2019s voice is low, patronizing. Jimmy Delmonico. A first-class douchebag for sure. \\\\u201cThe other residents are upset at the prospect of snakes. Surely you get that?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAin\\\\u2019t no snakes in there! And who\\\\u2019re you to tell me what to do with my bush?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThere are rules, Jeanne.\\\\u201d Cameron trots into the backyard. Delmonico is glaring at Aunt Jeanne, who is indeed wearing that gray sweatshirt. Red-faced, she holds up a clutch of the dense, waxy vines that cover the trellis attached to the back of her trailer. Her cane, with its faded green tennis ball jammed on the tip, rests against the siding. \\\\u201cCammy!\\\\u201d Aunt Jeanne is the only person on the planet who\\\\u2019s allowed to call him that. He jogs over, then smiles as she wraps him in a quick hug. She smells like stale coffee, as usual. Then he turns to Delmonico, stone-faced, and says, \\\\u201cWhat\\\\u2019s the issue here?\\\\u201d Aunt Jeanne snatches her cane and points it accusingly at the landlord. \\\\u201cCammy, tell him there\\\\u2019s no snakes in my clematis! He\\\\u2019s trying to make me rip it down. All because Sissy Baker said she saw something. Everyone knows that old bat can\\\\u2019t hardly see.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou heard her. No snakes in there,\\\\u201d Cameron says firmly, tilting his head at the mass of vines, which have grown thick and lush since his last visit. How long has it been? A month? Delmonico pinches the bridge of his nose. \\\\u201cNice to see you again, too, Cameron.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cPleasure\\\\u2019s all mine.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cLook, this is straight out of the Welina Mobile Park bylaws,\\\\u201d Delmonico says with a sigh. \\\\u201cWhen a resident makes a complaint, I\\\\u2019m required to undertake an investigation. And Mrs. Baker said she saw a snake. Said she saw, right in that there plant, yellow eyes blinking at her.\\\\u201d Cameron scoffs. \\\\u201cShe\\\\u2019s obviously lying.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cObviously,\\\\u201d Aunt Jeanne echoes, but she casts him a puzzled look from the corner of her eye. \\\\u201cOh, really?\\\\u201d Delmonico folds his arms. \\\\u201cMrs. Baker has been a member of this community for years.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSissy Baker\\\\u2019s packed full of more shit than a turd burger.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cCammy!\\\\u201d Aunt Jeanne swats his arm, reproaching his language. Which is rich, from the woman who taught him \\\\u201cA is for Asshole\\\\u201d while he was learning the alphabet. \\\\u201cExcuse me?\\\\u201d Delmonico dips his glasses. \\\\u201cSnakes can\\\\u2019t blink.\\\\u201d Cameron rolls his eyes. \\\\u201cThey can\\\\u2019t. They don\\\\u2019t have eyelids. Look it up.\\\\u201d The landlord opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. \\\\u201cCase closed. No snakes.\\\\u201d Cameron folds his arms, which are at least twice the diameter of Delmonico\\\\u2019s. Bicep day\\\\u2019s been lit at the gym lately. Delmonico does actually look like he\\\\u2019d prefer to leave. Studying his shoes, he grumbles, \\\\u201cIf that\\\\u2019s even true, the snake-eyelid thing . . . there are ordinances. Blame the county for that, if you want, but when someone reports that one of my properties has a pest infestation\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI told you, no snakes!\\\\u201d Aunt Jeanne throws her hands up. Her cane lands on the grass. \\\\u201cYou heard my nephew. No eyelids! You know what it is? Sissy Baker\\\\u2019s jealous of my garden.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNow, Jeanne.\\\\u201d Delmonico holds up a hand. \\\\u201cEveryone knows you have a lovely garden.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSissy Baker\\\\u2019s a liar, and blind to boot!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBe that as it may, there are safety codes. If something creates a hazardous situation\\\\u2014\\\\u201d Cameron takes a step toward him. \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t think anyone wants a hazardous situation.\\\\u201d It\\\\u2019s a bluff, mostly. Cameron hates fighting. But shrimp-on-a-stick here doesn\\\\u2019t need to know that. Looking almost comically startled, Delmonico pats his pocket, then makes a show of pulling out his phone. \\\\u201cHey, sorry. Need to take this.\\\\u201d Cameron snickers. The old fake phone call. This guy sucks. \\\\u201cJust trim it back a little, okay, Jeanne?\\\\u201d he yells over his shoulder as he crunches down the gravel walkway toward the road. IT TAKES CAMERON the better part of an hour to prune the clematis, fielding Aunt Jeanne\\\\u2019s picky instructions while balanced on a stepladder. A little more there. No, not so much! Trim down the left. I meant right. No, I meant left. Down below, Aunt Jeanne collects the snipped-off stems and purple flowers in a yard waste bag. \\\\u201cIs that thing about the snakes true, Cammy?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSure it is.\\\\u201d He climbs down the ladder. Aunt Jeanne frowns. \\\\u201cSo, for real, no snakes in my clematis, right?\\\\u201d Cameron glances at her sidelong as he strips off his gloves. \\\\u201cHave you seen a snake in your clematis?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cUh . . . no?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, there\\\\u2019s your answer.\\\\u201d Aunt Jeanne grins, opening her back door, shoving aside a stack of newspapers with the tip of her cane. \\\\u201cStay and visit, hon. D\\\\u2019you want coffee? Tea? Whiskey?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhiskey? Seriously?\\\\u201d It\\\\u2019s not even ten in the morning. Cameron\\\\u2019s stomach lurches at the thought of booze. He ducks under the door frame and blinks, adjusting to the low light inside, letting out a breath of relief at the state of the place. It\\\\u2019s bad, of course. But no worse than last time. For a while, the junk seemed to be breeding with itself like a bunch of horny rabbits. \\\\u201cPlain coffee, then,\\\\u201d she says with a wink. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re getting old, Cammy. No fun these days!\\\\u201d He grumbles something about having too much fun last night, and Aunt Jeanne nods in her slightly amused way. Clearly, she can tell he\\\\u2019s riding the struggle bus this morning. Maybe he really is getting old. Thirty is a bitch so far. She shuffles the mess of boxes and papers on her tiny kitchen counter in search of her coffee maker. Cameron picks up the paperback sitting on top of a pile of junk that has nearly buried her rickety little desk, an ancient desktop computer humming somewhere beneath the heap. The book is a romance, one of those ones with a shirtless muscled guy on the front. He tosses it back down, causing a stack of piled-up crap to cascade to the carpet. When did she get like this? The collecting, as she calls it. She was never like this when he was growing up. Sometimes Cameron passes through their old neighborhood back in Modesto, the two-bedroom house where she raised him. That house was always clean. A few years back, she sold it to help pay off the medical bills from the summer before. Turns out, getting knocked out in the parking lot of Dell\\\\u2019s Saloon costs a fortune, and it wasn\\\\u2019t even Aunt Jeanne\\\\u2019s fault. Some asshole guys from out of town were making trouble, and she was just trying to get everyone to simmer down. Somehow, she took a punch to the side of her head and ended up flat on the pavement. A bad concussion, a shattered hip, months of physical and occupational therapy. Cameron had ditched a decent job with a restoration company, one that could\\\\u2019ve led to an apprenticeship, to care for her, sleeping on her couch so she\\\\u2019d remember her meds and driving her to and from the brain-injury specialist in Stockton. Every afternoon, he met the mailman on the porch, opening the door quietly so she wouldn\\\\u2019t notice. His pathetic savings account held off the collectors for a little while. When Aunt Jeanne finally sold the house, she had just turned fifty-two, the age requirement for Welina residents. For reasons that still baffle Cameron, instead of getting a regular apartment or something, she decided to use the small amount of cash left over to buy this trailer and move out here. Was that when the collecting started? Is this dump of a trailer park causing it? Still railing about how Sissy Baker has had it out for her since the misunderstanding at the Welina potluck last summer (Cameron doesn\\\\u2019t ask for details), she sets down two steaming mugs on the coffee table and motions for him to sit next to her on the sofa. \\\\u201cSo how\\\\u2019s work been?\\\\u201d Cameron shrugs. \\\\u201cYou got canned again, didn\\\\u2019t you?\\\\u201d He doesn\\\\u2019t answer. Aunt Jeanne\\\\u2019s eyes narrow. \\\\u201cCammy! You know I pulled strings down at the county office to get you on that project.\\\\u201d Aunt Jeanne still works part-time at the reception desk at the county office. She\\\\u2019s been there for years. Of course, she knows everyone. And yeah, the project was a big one. An office park on the outskirts of town. Still didn\\\\u2019t matter: ten measly minutes late on his second day, and the asshole foreman told him to pack it. Was it Cameron\\\\u2019s fault the foreman had zero capacity for empathy? \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s not like I asked you to pull any strings,\\\\u201d he mutters, then explains what happened. \\\\u201cSo you screwed up. Royally. Now what?\\\\u201d Cameron\\\\u2019s mouth twists into a pout. Aunt Jeanne is supposed to be on his side. A loaded silence sits between them; she takes a sip of coffee. Her mug is covered in dancing cartoon frogs with bright red lettering: WHO LET THE FROGS OUT? He shakes his head and tries to change the subject. \\\\u201cI like your new flag. The one outside.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cDo you?\\\\u201d Her face brightens the tiniest bit. \\\\u201cI got it from one of those catalogs. Mail order.\\\\u201d Cameron nods, not surprised. \\\\u201cHow\\\\u2019s Katie?\\\\u201d she asks. \\\\u201cKatie\\\\u2019s fine,\\\\u201d Cameron says, his voice breezy. Actually, he hasn\\\\u2019t seen his girlfriend since he kissed her goodbye when she left for work yesterday morning. She was supposed to come see Moth Sausage play, but apparently she was too tired to come out, then he ended up staying out later than planned and crashing at Brad\\\\u2019s. But, of course, she\\\\u2019s fine. Katie\\\\u2019s the type of girl who\\\\u2019s never in trouble, always fine. \\\\u201cShe\\\\u2019s a good catch for you.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah, she\\\\u2019s great.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI just want you to be happy.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m happy.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAnd it would be nice if you could hang on to a job for more than two days.\\\\u201d Great, this again. Cameron scowls, rubbing a hand across his face. His eyeballs are pounding. He should probably drink some water. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re so smart, Cammy. So damn smart . . .\\\\u201d He rises from the couch and stares out the window. After a long second, he says, \\\\u201cThey don\\\\u2019t just hand out paychecks for being smart, you know.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, for you, they should.\\\\u201d She pats the space next to her on the couch, and Cameron sinks down, dropping his throbbing head onto her shoulder. He loves Aunt Jeanne, of course he does. But she doesn\\\\u2019t get it. NO ONE IN the family knows where Cameron got his smarts. And by \\\\u201cfamily,\\\\u201d he means him and Aunt Jeanne. That\\\\u2019s his whole family. He can barely remember his mother\\\\u2019s face. He was nine years old when Aunt Jeanne picked him up from his mother\\\\u2019s apartment after she\\\\u2019d told him to pack his bag to stay with his aunt for the weekend. In itself, this wasn\\\\u2019t unusual. He often stayed overnight there. But this time, his mother never came to retrieve him. He remembers her giving him a hug goodbye, tears running inky trails of makeup down her face. He recalls, with clarity, that her arms felt bony. The weekend turned into a week, then a month. Then a year. Somewhere in her cluttered curio cabinet, Aunt Jeanne has these little ceramic tchotchkes his mother collected as a child. Shaped like hearts, stars, animals. Some of them are engraved with her name: DAPHNE ANN CASSMORE. Every so often, Aunt Jeanne asks him if he\\\\u2019d like to have them, and every time, he says no. Why would he want her old crap when she couldn\\\\u2019t get herself clean long enough to be his mother? At least Cameron knows who he inherited the disaster gene from. Aunt Jeanne applied for sole custody with the courts, which was granted without contest. Much better this way, he remembers the caseworker saying in a low voice, for Cameron to be with family rather than \\\\u201centering the system.\\\\u201d A decade older than Daphne, Aunt Jeanne never married or had children of her own. She always called Cameron the blessing she never expected to have. With Aunt Jeanne, his childhood was good. She was never exactly like the mothers of his friends. Who could forget the Halloween she showed up for his grade school parade in a homemade Marge Simpson costume, the year he went as Bart? But somehow, it worked. In school, Cameron did well enough. He met Elizabeth there, then Brad. Surprisingly well-adjusted, he overheard people say sometimes, for a kid in his shoes. As for his father? It\\\\u2019s possible that\\\\u2019s where Cameron got his smarts. Anything could be possible when it comes to his father. Neither he nor Aunt Jeanne has any idea who his father is. When Cameron was a kid, before he understood how baby-making worked and the necessity of, at a minimum, a sperm donor, he used to believe he simply didn\\\\u2019t have one. \\\\u201cKnowing the crowd your mom ran with, he was probably someone you\\\\u2019re better off without,\\\\u201d Aunt Jeanne always says when the subject comes up. But Cameron has always doubted that. He\\\\u2019s sure his mother was clean when he was born. He\\\\u2019s seen the photos, her hair in soft brown curls as she pushes him on a baby swing at the park. The using, the problems, Cameron is sure, came after. Came because of him. Aunt Jeanne starts to get up. \\\\u201cMore coffee, hon?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou sit, I\\\\u2019ll get it,\\\\u201d he says, shaking the headache off. He picks his way across the clutter toward the kitchen. As he\\\\u2019s pouring two fresh cups, Aunt Jeanne calls from the sofa, \\\\u201cSay, how\\\\u2019s Elizabeth Burnett doing? She\\\\u2019s due at the end of the summer, right? I ran into her mama at the gas station a few days ago, but we didn\\\\u2019t have much chance to chat.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah, she\\\\u2019s about to pop. But she\\\\u2019s good. She and Brad, they\\\\u2019re both good.\\\\u201d Creamer swirls in white streaks as Cameron pours it into his coffee. \\\\u201cShe was always such a sweet girl. I never got why she chose Brad over you.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAunt Jeanne!\\\\u201d Cameron groans. He must\\\\u2019ve explained a million times; it was never like that with Elizabeth. \\\\u201cWell, I\\\\u2019m just saying.\\\\u201d Cameron, Brad, and Elizabeth were best friends growing up: the three musketeers. Now, somehow, the other two are married and having a baby. It\\\\u2019s not lost on Cameron that the tot\\\\u2019s going to take his place as Brad and Elizabeth\\\\u2019s third wheel. \\\\u201cSpeaking of which, I should bounce. Brad needs his truck back by lunchtime.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh! One thing, before you go.\\\\u201d With effort, Aunt Jeanne uses her cane to lever herself up from the sofa. Cameron tries to help, but she waves him away. For what seems like a decade, she jostles around the clutter in the other room. Meanwhile, he can\\\\u2019t resist poking through a stack of papers on the table. Old electric bill (paid, thankfully), a page torn from TV Guide (they still publish that?), and a hunk of discharge papers from the minute clinic at the drugstore in town, a prescription form stapled to the top page. Damn, personal shit. But before he can bury the script, he sees something that makes his cheeks burn white-hot. This can\\\\u2019t be right. Aunt Jeanne? Chlamydia? Her cane thumps toward the living room. Cameron tries to shove everything back, but to his horror, the whole stack topples, leaving him holding the script. He dangles it from the tips of his fingers, as if the paper itself might be infected. A stationery transmitted disease. \\\\u201cOh, that.\\\\u201d She shrugs, nonchalant. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s going around the park.\\\\u201d Cameron feels his insides lurch. He swallows and says, \\\\u201cWell, this shit is no joke, Aunt Jeanne. Glad you got treated.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOf course I did.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAnd maybe start using, uh, protection?\\\\u201d Is he really having this conversation? \\\\u201cWell, I\\\\u2019m team rubber, but Wally Perkins, he won\\\\u2019t\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cStop. Sorry I asked.\\\\u201d She chuckles. \\\\u201cServes you right for snooping.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cPoint taken.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAnyway. This.\\\\u201d With her slipper, she nudges a box Cameron hadn\\\\u2019t noticed at her feet. \\\\u201cSome things of your mother\\\\u2019s. Thought you might want them.\\\\u201d Cameron stands. \\\\u201cNo thanks,\\\\u201d he says, without a second look at the box. \\\\n Day 1,302 of My Captivity MY CURRENT WEIGHT IS SIXTY POUNDS. I AM A BIG BOY. As always, my examination began with the bucket. Dr. Santiago removed the top of my tank and lifted the large yellow bucket until it was flush with the rim. It contained seven scallops. Dr. Santiago prodded my mantle over the tank\\\\u2019s edge with her net, but needlessly. For fresh scallops, I would have entered willingly. The anesthesia seeped sweetly through my skin. My limbs stilled. My eyes closed. My first encounter with the bucket was long ago. Day thirty-three of my captivity. Back then, I found the sensation alarming. But I have grown to enjoy the bucket. With the bucket comes a sensation of total nothingness, which, in most ways, is more pleasant than the everything-ness. My arms dragged on the concrete as Dr. Santiago carried me to the table. She folded me into a pile on the plastic scale. She gasped: \\\\u201cWhoa, big boy!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHow much?\\\\u201d Terry said, poking me with his large brown hands that always taste of mackerel. \\\\u201cUp three pounds from last month,\\\\u201d Dr. Santiago answered. \\\\u201cHas his diet changed?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNot that I know of, but I can double-check,\\\\u201d Terry said. \\\\u201cPlease do. This sort of gain is abnormal, to say the least.\\\\u201d What can I say? I am a special guy, after all. \\\\n June Gloom There\\\\u2019s a new boy bagging at Shop-Way tonight. Tova flattens her lips as he puts her strawberry and marmalade jams side by side in the grocery bag. They clink ominously as he jostles in the rest: coffee beans, green grapes, frozen peas, a bear-shaped bottle of honey, and a box of tissues. They\\\\u2019re the soft, lotion-y kind. The expensive kind. Tova began buying them for Will when he was in the hospital, where the tissues were sandpaper. Now she finds herself too accustomed to them to switch to the more affordable brand. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ll hardly need to see that, love,\\\\u201d Ethan Mack says as Tova presents her loyalty card. The cashier is a chatty fellow with a heavy Scottish accent who also happens to be the store\\\\u2019s owner. He raps a callused knuckle against his wizened temple and grins. \\\\u201cGot it all up here; had your number punched in no sooner\\\\u2019n you came through the door.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThank you, Ethan.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAnytime.\\\\u201d He hands her a receipt and flashes his slightly crooked, but kind, grin. Tova scans it to make sure the jams rung through with the promotion properly applied. There they are: buy one, get one half price. She ought not to have doubted: Ethan runs a tight ship. The Shop-Way has improved since he moved to town and bought the place a few years back. Won\\\\u2019t be long before he has the new boy trained in proper bagging technique. She tucks the receipt into her pocketbook. \\\\u201cSome June, innit?\\\\u201d Ethan leans back and crosses his arms over his belly. It\\\\u2019s past ten in the evening: the checkout lanes are empty, and the new boy has retreated to the bench next to the deli counter. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s been drizzly,\\\\u201d Tova agrees. \\\\u201cYou know me, love. I\\\\u2019m like a big duck. Rolls off my back. But I\\\\u2019ll be damned if I haven\\\\u2019t forgotten what the sun looks like.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYes, well.\\\\u201d Ethan smooths piles of receipts into neat white bricks, his eyes lingering on the circular sucker mark on her wrist, a purplish bruise which has hardly faded in the days since the octopus grabbed her there. He clears his throat. \\\\u201cTova, I\\\\u2019m sorry to hear about your brother\\\\u2019s passing.\\\\u201d Tova lowers her head but says nothing. He continues, \\\\u201cYou need anything at all, just say the word.\\\\u201d She meets his eyes. She\\\\u2019s known Ethan for years, and the man doesn\\\\u2019t go out of his way to avoid scuttlebutt. Tova has never met a sixty-something-year-old man who so enjoys gossip. So he\\\\u2019s surely aware of the estrangement between her and her brother. Tone measured, she says, \\\\u201cLars and I weren\\\\u2019t close.\\\\u201d Had she and Lars ever been close? Tova is certain they were, once. As children: certainly. As young adults: mostly. Lars stood alongside Will, both in gray suits, at Tova and Will\\\\u2019s wedding. At the reception, Lars gave a lovely speech that made everyone\\\\u2019s eyes mist over, even their stoic father\\\\u2019s. For years afterward, Tova and Will spent every New Year\\\\u2019s Eve at Lars\\\\u2019s house in Ballard, eating rice pudding and clinking flutes at midnight while little Erik slept under a crocheted blanket on the davenport. But things started to change after Erik died. Once in a while, one of the Knit-Wits probes Tova, asking what happened between her and Lars, and Tova says nothing, really, and this is the truth. It happened gradually. No blow-out argument, no fist-shaking or hollering. One New Year\\\\u2019s Eve, Lars phoned Tova and informed her that he and Denise had other plans. Denise, his wife, for a time anyway. When they would come for dinner, Denise was fond of loitering around the kitchen sink while Tova was up to her elbows in suds, insisting that she was there if Tova ever needed to talk. Well, it\\\\u2019s not a crime for her to care about you, even if you don\\\\u2019t know her well, is what Lars said when Tova registered her annoyance. After that fizzled New Year\\\\u2019s, there was a skipped Easter luncheon, a canceled birthday party, a Christmas gathering that never made it past the we should get together state of planning. The years stretched into decades, turning siblings to strangers. Ethan fiddles with the small silver key dangling from the drawer of the cash register. His voice is soft when he says, \\\\u201cStill, family is family.\\\\u201d He grimaces, lowering his awkward frame into the swivel chair next to the register. Tova happens to know the chair helps his bad back. Not the sort of gossip she seeks out, of course, but sometimes one can\\\\u2019t help but overhear. The Knit-Wits like to natter on about such things. Tova sighs. Family is family. She knows Ethan means well, but what a ridiculous saying. Of course family is family; what else could it be? Lars was her last living relation. Family, even though she hadn\\\\u2019t spoken to him in years. \\\\u201cI must get going,\\\\u201d she finally replies. \\\\u201cMy feet are quite sore from work.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAye! Your aquarium gig.\\\\u201d Ethan sounds thankful for the change in subject. \\\\u201cSay hello to the scallops for me.\\\\u201d Tova nods gravely. \\\\u201cI will tell them hello.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cLet \\\\u2019em know they\\\\u2019re livin\\\\u2019 the high life compared to their cousins over there, in the seafood case.\\\\u201d Ethan ticks his head toward the fresh seafood department at the back of the store, the one that, with a few local-catch exceptions, offers mostly previously frozen seafood. He leans his elbows on the checkout counter with a bemused look in his eyes. Tova\\\\u2019s cheeks flush, having picked up on his facetiousness an instant too late. Those scallops in the cold case, rounds of translucent white . . . at least Sowell Bay is too provincial to support a grocery store that sells octopus. She heaves up her grocery bag. Predictably, its contents list toward one end and the jam jars clink again. Sometimes there is simply a correct way to do things. With a pointed glance at the new bagging fellow, who is slumped on the deli bench now, jabbing at his phone, Tova sets the bag down and moves the marmalade to the other side of the grapes. The way it ought to have been done in the first place. Ethan follows her gaze. Then he stands and barks, \\\\u201cTanner! What happened to stocking the dairy case?\\\\u201d The kid stuffs his phone in his pocket and stalks off toward the back of the store. Tova hides a smile at how satisfied Ethan looks with himself. When he notices, he runs a hand over his short wiry beard, which is mostly white these days but clings to a reddish hint. Soon, he\\\\u2019ll let it grow in anticipation of the holidays. Ethan Mack plays a very convincing Scots Santa Claus. Every Saturday in December he\\\\u2019ll sit in a chair in the community center in a polyester costume, taking photos with the town\\\\u2019s children and occasionally a small dog or two. Janice brings Rolo to visit Santa every year. \\\\u201cKids need a little direction now and then,\\\\u201d Ethan says. \\\\u201cThen again, I suppose we all do.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI suppose so.\\\\u201d Tova picks up her grocery sack again and turns toward the door. \\\\u201cIf you need anything at all . . .\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThank you, Ethan. I appreciate it.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cDrive safe now, love,\\\\u201d he calls as the chime dings. AT HOME, TOVA unties her sneakers and turns on the television to channel four. The eleven-o\\\\u2019clock news is only tolerable on channel four. Craig Moreno and Carla Ketchum and meteorologist Joan Jennison. Channel seven is tabloid nonsense, and who can stand to watch that blowhard Foster Wallace on channel thirteen? Channel four is the only sane option. The show\\\\u2019s jingle drifts into the kitchen, where Tova unloads her groceries. She hadn\\\\u2019t bought much; her refrigerator is already stuffed with casseroles, left on her porch over the last few days by the Knit-Wits and other well-wishers intending to comfort her over Lars\\\\u2019s death. \\\\u201cOh, for heaven\\\\u2019s sake,\\\\u201d she says, bending down and rustling around her jammed fridge, trying to finagle a space for her grapes around an oversized pan of ham-and-cheese gratin Mary Ann dropped off yesterday. A scratching sound startles her. She stands upright. It\\\\u2019s coming from the porch. Another casserole? And at this hour. She makes her way past the den, where the television is blaring a commercial for life insurance. The front door is still open from her carrying in the groceries, so she squints through the screen door, expecting to see an offering on the doormat, but it\\\\u2019s empty. And no car in the driveway, either. The door creaks as she opens it. \\\\u201cHello?\\\\u201d More scratching. A raccoon? A rat? \\\\u201cWho\\\\u2019s there?\\\\u201d A pair of yellow eyes. Then a reproachful meow. Tova lets out a breath she hadn\\\\u2019t meant to hold. Stray cats roam the neighborhood, but she\\\\u2019s never seen this gray one, now sitting on her porch step like a king on his throne. The cat blinks, glaring up at her. \\\\u201cWell?\\\\u201d She frowns, flapping a hand. \\\\u201cShoo!\\\\u201d The cat tilts its head. \\\\u201cI said, shoo!\\\\u201d The cat yawns. Tova plants her hands on her hips, and the cat saunters over and winds its narrow body between her feet. She can feel each tine of its rib cage against her ankle bone. She clucks her tongue. \\\\u201cWell, I have ham gratin. Would that suit you?\\\\u201d The cat\\\\u2019s purr has a high-pitched tinge to it. Desperate. \\\\u201cAll right, then. But if I catch you using my flower beds as a litter box . . .\\\\u201d She slips back through the door, leaving Cat, as Tova decides it should be called, peering through the screen. After returning with a loaded plate, she sits and watches from the porch swing as Cat devours cold ham, cheese, and potato. When Tova returns the dish to Mary Ann later, she won\\\\u2019t mention who consumed it. \\\\u201cShame to see it go to waste, so I\\\\u2019m glad to share,\\\\u201d she confides to Cat. And she means this. How much food do her friends think she can possibly eat? Tova sets a mental reminder to collect Cat\\\\u2019s dish in the morning and goes back inside, closing the door behind her. From the den drifts the sound of the news, which has returned from a commercial break. \\\\u201cWell, Carla, I know I\\\\u2019m ready for some summer weather here in Seattle.\\\\u201d Craig Moreno chuckles. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m more than ready, Craig!\\\\u201d Carla Ketchum\\\\u2019s laugh is watery. Next, she\\\\u2019ll lean her forearm on the desk and beam at the camera before turning to her co-anchor. She\\\\u2019ll be wearing blue, as she seems to believe it flatters her best. And because it rained today, her blond hair will be wavy instead of tamed into a bob. Of course, Tova can\\\\u2019t see any of this from the kitchen, but she\\\\u2019s certain. \\\\u201cWe\\\\u2019ll see what Joan has to say about that. After the break!\\\\u201d Now the camera will pan back to Craig Moreno. His tone will rise a smidgen when he says Joan\\\\u2019s name. This began a few weeks ago. Presumably when he and the weather lady began having relations. Tova doesn\\\\u2019t stay to hear the forecast. Doesn\\\\u2019t need to\\\\u2014it\\\\u2019ll be cloudy and drizzly. More June gloom. \\\\n Chasing a Lass Though he could do with a spot of sun lately, Ethan Mack doesn\\\\u2019t mind foggy nights. Halos gather around the streetlights; a ferry horn bellows somewhere in the brume. Midnight chill seeps down his collar as he sits on the bench in front of the Shop-Way, puffing his pipe. Strictly speaking, this is not permitted. Per the handbook, Shop-Way employees must clock out for smoke breaks. Of course, Ethan himself is the one who wrote that handbook, although even so, he tries not to lift himself above the rules. But he and Tanner are the only ones here, and the kid is in the back, none the wiser. Watching Tova go into the night always prickles his nerves. According to his police scanner, there are always lunatics on the roads at night. Why must she do her shopping so late? It\\\\u2019s been almost two years since she started coming late in the evening. Since Ethan started pressing his flannel collar before his shift. Trying to make himself a bit tidier. Make himself seem more presentable. He pulls the pipe\\\\u2019s warmth into his chest, then exhales. The smoke melts into the fog. The fog reminds Ethan of home: Kilberry, on the Sound of Jura in western Scotland. Still home, though he\\\\u2019s lived in the United States forty years. Forty years since he packed a duffel and quit his post as a docker in Kennacraig. Forty years since he chased a lass. It had fizzled with Cindy. The plan was rubbish to begin with, shacking up with a holiday-making American, pissing his savings on a ticket from Heathrow to JFK. He still remembers how the isles grew smaller and smaller through the little oval window. Tanner pokes his muttonish head out the door. If he registers Ethan\\\\u2019s rule breaking, he doesn\\\\u2019t show it. The lad\\\\u2019s not the brightest bulb. He says, \\\\u201cDid you want me to do the entire cold case?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cA\\\\u2019course. What do you think I\\\\u2019m paying you for?\\\\u201d Tanner grumbles as he slinks back inside. Ethan shakes his head. Kids these days. New York City was gritty in the seventies, and before long, Ethan and Cindy had bigger plans. Cindy emptied her flat in Brooklyn to buy an old Volkswagen van, which they drove across the country, and its vastness blew Ethan\\\\u2019s mind. Pennsylvania, Indiana, Nebraska, Nevada. Any one of them could\\\\u2019ve contained Scotland entirely. When they found the sea again, Ethan was relieved. They lingered on the coast of Northern California for weeks, making love in the shadows of giant redwoods, before working their way north along the Pacific Coast Highway. In a ramshackle chapel somewhere near the Oregon border, he and Cindy tied the knot. Weeks later, in Aberdeen, Washington, the van\\\\u2019s transmission finally failed. Ethan tinkered with it, but it was gone. And in the morning, so was Cindy. And that was that. Aberdeen suited Ethan. He had never visited its namesake town on the northern coast of Scotland, but it felt familiar. Low, gray skies. Gruff, industrious people. He took a job as a longshoreman. Found a bed in a rooming house. Took his tea early in the morning, while watching the fog drift over the ship masts. The union treated him well, retiring him with a modest pension at the age of fifty-five. Out of grudging necessity, he moved inland, closer to the city, to the physical therapists needed to reshape his back after years of hoisting logs onto boats. But retirement made him restless. Shop-Way had a swing shift to fill, was happy to furnish an ergonomic chair at his register. He did them one better and gathered up his savings and bought the place. Now, ten years later, he still doesn\\\\u2019t need the money, not exactly. The union pension covers rent, food, gas for his truck. But the trickle of profit from the store affords him new vinyl records for his collection and a nice bottle of scotch now and then. Proper Islay whiskey, not Highlands rubbish. Headlights flash on the slick pavement as a car swerves into the parking lot. Ethan snuffs his pipe and ducks back through the front door. He posts up at the register as a young man and woman stagger in, arms so deeply entwined that they move like a single person. They ping-pong down the aisles, giggling as they ricochet off the pillars of chips and soda. They fumble with a debit card at the register. They peel out onto the road, washing the front windows in white light as they go. Idiots. They\\\\u2019ll kill someone. Someone like Ethan\\\\u2019s sister, Mariah, who was struck by a truck when she was barely ten. Fishermen on their way back from the pub. The world is full of idiots. The thought of Tova\\\\u2019s hatchback out there on that road makes Ethan queasy. He wishes he could drive by her house and make sure her car is parked there. Maybe her lights would be on. But no. He broke himself once, chasing a lass. \\\\n Day 1,306 of My Captivity I AM VERY GOOD AT KEEPING SECRETS. You might say I have no choice. Whom might I tell? My options are scant. To the extent I am able to communicate with the other prisoners, those dull conversations are rarely worth the effort. Blunt minds, rudimentary neural systems. They are wired for survival, and perhaps expert at that function, but no other creature here possesses intelligence like mine. It is lonely. Perhaps it would be less so if I had someone with whom to share my secrets. Secrets are everywhere. Some humans are crammed full of them. How do they not explode? It seems to be a hallmark of the human species: abysmal communication skills. Not that any other species are much better, mind you, but even a herring can tell which way the school it belongs to is turning and follow accordingly. Why can humans not use their millions of words to simply tell one another what they desire? The sea, too, is very good at keeping secrets. One in particular, from the bottom of the sea, I carry with me still. \\\\n Baby Vipers are Especially Deadly The box sits on Cameron\\\\u2019s kitchen counter, untouched, for three days. Aunt Jeanne had schlepped it out of the trailer herself. Toss it if you want, but at least look through it first, she\\\\u2019d said. Family\\\\u2019s important. Cameron had rolled his eyes. Family. But when that woman truly wants her way, arguing is pointless. So the box traveled home with him. Now, Cameron eyes it from the sofa, considering turning off SportsCenter to take a look. Might be something in there he could take down to the pawnshop. Katie will need his half of July\\\\u2019s rent soon. Maybe after lunch. The microwave hums and rotates his noodle cup while he waits. Cooking by magnet-blasting radiation, causing food molecules to beat the shit out of each other: Who comes up with this stuff, figures out how to market it? Whoever that guy is, he\\\\u2019s probably swimming naked in a pile of cash somewhere, surrounded by supermodels. Life is unfair. Ding. Cameron removes the steaming cup. He\\\\u2019s carrying it back to the sofa, careful not to let it slosh, when the apartment door creaks open, startling him. \\\\u201cShit!\\\\u201d Scalding liquid spills over his hand. \\\\u201cCam! Are you okay?\\\\u201d Katie drops her work bag and runs over. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m fine,\\\\u201d he mutters. What\\\\u2019s she doing home on a Tuesday afternoon? Then again, she might ask him the same question. His mind spins. Had he told her he was working today? Had she asked? \\\\u201cHang on,\\\\u201d she says, ducking into the kitchen, her perfect little butt twitching under her gray skirt. Katie works at the front desk of the Holiday Inn by the freeway. Good thing she\\\\u2019s been working day shift lately. He would\\\\u2019ve been busted by now if she were still on nights. She hurries back, carrying two damp rags. \\\\u201cThanks,\\\\u201d Cameron says as she hands him one. Its coolness is welcome relief on his hand. Then she squats down to wipe up the spilled broth with the other. \\\\u201cSo, you\\\\u2019re home early,\\\\u201d he says, bending to help, forcing his voice to be casual. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ve got a dentist appointment this afternoon. Remember? We talked about it last week.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh yeah. Right.\\\\u201d Cameron nods, vaguely recalling. \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t remember you mentioning you were off today.\\\\u201d She plucks a stray noodle from the carpet and drops it into her rag, looking up at him through narrow eyes. \\\\u201cUh, yeah. I\\\\u2019m off today.\\\\u201d He doesn\\\\u2019t add: and tomorrow, and the next day, and the one after. \\\\u201cWeird they\\\\u2019d give you a day off. It\\\\u2019s only your third week.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s a holiday, actually.\\\\u201d Shit, why did he say that? She stands. \\\\u201cA holiday?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah.\\\\u201d It\\\\u2019s a slippery lie. \\\\u201cInternational Contractors\\\\u2019 Day. Everyone gets the day off.\\\\u201d Really, what is he going to tell her? The truth? He just needs time. A few days to land a new job. Then it\\\\u2019ll be all good. \\\\u201cInternational Contractors\\\\u2019 Day.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYep.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cEveryone gets the day off?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cEveryone.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBizarre they\\\\u2019re still working on the roof next door, then, isn\\\\u2019t it?\\\\u201d Cameron opens his mouth, but the bang-bang of a nail gun echoes from the rooftop of the next building over, cutting him off. Katie\\\\u2019s face is cold, blank. \\\\u201cYou got fired again.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI mean, technically\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat happened?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, I was\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhen were you going to tell me?\\\\u201d she interrupts. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m trying to tell you now, if you\\\\u2019ll give me a chance!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou know what? Never mind.\\\\u201d She picks up her work bag and stomps toward the door. \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t have time for this. I\\\\u2019m late for my appointment, and I\\\\u2019m done giving chances.\\\\u201d CHANCES. IF LIFE kept a tally of chances, Cameron would be owed big-time. What would Katie know about having an addict parent? What would Katie know about this gnawing hatred inside him that never goes away? Katie, with her parents who bought her a car when she graduated high school. Katie, with her tight gray skirt and straight white teeth, which right now are being polished by some needle-dick dentist. They\\\\u2019ll give her a free toothbrush on the way out. She\\\\u2019ll toss it, still wrapped, in the bathroom drawer because she uses some fancy electric toothbrush anyway. He\\\\u2019s stretched out on the couch, watching some low-budget action movie, when she finally returns. It occurs to him that it\\\\u2019s been a while. Hours and hours; it\\\\u2019s nearly dark outside now. Way longer than a dentist appointment should take\\\\u2014not that he\\\\u2019d actually know; he hasn\\\\u2019t been to a dentist in years. Maybe Katie had a bunch of cavities or something. A root canal. Aunt Jeanne had a root canal last year and complained about the pain for a week. The thought of perfect Katie getting poked in the mouth with a pointy drill is vaguely satisfying, and this makes him feel like a jerk. \\\\u201cHey,\\\\u201d he calls, then pauses, waiting for her lamenting sigh, the one meaning she\\\\u2019s still pissed, but less so. He\\\\u2019ll say he\\\\u2019s sorry, and she\\\\u2019ll frown, but she won\\\\u2019t really mean it, then he\\\\u2019ll put his hand on her leg and she\\\\u2019ll lean into him and they\\\\u2019ll lie here, cuddling, while they finish watching this dumb movie before retiring to bed for some solid post-argument sex. But she doesn\\\\u2019t respond. Instead, she heads straight for the bedroom. He half smiles. Straight to it? Then he hears the first thunk. What the . . . ? He has to investigate. As he walks in, Cameron watches his work boot sail over the edge of the moonlit balcony, landing below on the tiny square of crusty grass. Thunk. Its mate hits the walkway, then bounces a couple of times over the weedy cracks, laces dragging behind. \\\\u201cKatie! Can\\\\u2019t we talk?\\\\u201d She doesn\\\\u2019t answer. \\\\u201cLook, I\\\\u2019m sorry. I should\\\\u2019ve told you.\\\\u201d Again, no response. Whiz. A ball cap grazes his ear as it sails by. His favorite Niners cap. Enough. Yeah, he should have told her he got canned. But could they just talk about it for a hot second before she throws out everything he owns? \\\\u201cKatie,\\\\u201d he says slowly. Like she\\\\u2019s some wild animal, he reaches out and puts a tentative hand on her shoulder. \\\\u201cDon\\\\u2019t,\\\\u201d Katie mutters, twisting away. She yanks a pair of his boxers from the bureau and wads them in her fist, then hurls them toward the balcony door. But the throw is too soft. The underwear unfurls and flops to the floor. He bends to pick it up. \\\\u201cCan we just talk?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI can\\\\u2019t do this anymore, Cam.\\\\u201d For the first time since she left for the dentist this afternoon, she meets his gaze. Her eyes blaze, like the bonfires they used to build in the shadow of his Jeep when they\\\\u2019d go camping out in the high desert. But those days are long gone. The repo guys snagged the Jeep months ago. Cameron was going to call the bank, to make their so-called payment arrangement. He swears he was about to do it, but no, they just sent those assholes in and hauled it away, no second chance. Yet another deduction from his chance tally. \\\\u201cI swear, I was going to tell you. And it wasn\\\\u2019t my fault.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSure, it wasn\\\\u2019t your fault. Never is, is it?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNo!\\\\u201d The relief that washes over him at her sudden empathy is short-lived. Of course she\\\\u2019s being sarcastic. His cheeks burn. \\\\u201cI mean, it\\\\u2019s complicated.\\\\u201d Of course she\\\\u2019s kicking him out. Cameron would probably kick himself out, too. Katie closes her eyes. \\\\u201cCameron, it isn\\\\u2019t complicated. I\\\\u2019m going to put this to you as simply as possible, so your juvenile brain can understand. This. Is. Over.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBut I\\\\u2019ve got rent covered,\\\\u201d he insists, thoughts veering back to Aunt Jeanne\\\\u2019s mystery box. Desperation tinges his voice. He trails Katie from the bedroom into the kitchen, still clutching his boxers. \\\\u201cThis isn\\\\u2019t about rent! It\\\\u2019s about your inability to be an honest human being.\\\\u201d She picks up the mystery box from the counter and starts back toward the bedroom. Toward the balcony. To his surprise, his gut clenches. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ll take that.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cFine, whatever. Just get out.\\\\u201d She drops the box, and it lands with a heavy thump on the carpet. Her face has changed, the fire in her eyes vanished. She looks tired. \\\\u201cYou mean right now?\\\\u201d Cameron snorts. She can\\\\u2019t be serious. \\\\u201cNo, next Saturday. I threw your stuff outside for the hell of it.\\\\u201d She rolls her eyes. \\\\u201cYes, of course, right now.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhere am I supposed to go?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNot. My. Problem.\\\\u201d She lets out a hollow laugh. \\\\u201cNot that I care, but someday, you\\\\u2019re gonna have to grow up, you know?\\\\u201d THE BOX MAKES a reasonably comfortable seat. It\\\\u2019s better than the curb, anyway. In the dark, and with his stuff heaped next to him, Cameron waits for Brad to pick him up. And waits and waits. For an hour. Of all the times to not have a car. Finally, headlights sweep around the corner. \\\\u201cWhat the hell happened?\\\\u201d Brad slams his truck door as he gets out. \\\\u201cWhat the hell yourself! What took you so long?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, let\\\\u2019s see. How about, I was asleep. Because it\\\\u2019s almost eleven on a Tuesday night.\\\\u201d Brad starts chucking Cameron\\\\u2019s stuff into the truck bed. \\\\u201cSome of us have to work tomorrow, you know.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHey, fuck you.\\\\u201d Brad\\\\u2019s face melts into a grin. \\\\u201cToo soon? Sorry.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhatever. Can we just go?\\\\u201d As Cameron hoists a trash bag full of clothes, he glances up at the balcony, where Katie still has the patio door open and the bedroom light on, no doubt watching the curbside scene unfold. He throws one last glance toward the apartment before nestling his guitar case atop the pile and flipping the tailgate up. It creaks loudly, then closes with a metallic bang. \\\\u201cCome on,\\\\u201d Brad says, unlocking the passenger door. \\\\u201cGet in.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThanks,\\\\u201d Cameron mutters, hopping onto the seat with the box on his lap. Brad and Elizabeth\\\\u2019s house is on the outskirts of town, where subdivisions pop up overnight like a bad rash. Unnecessary plaster columns and fake brick facades and four-car garages. Bougie as shit. Elizabeth\\\\u2019s parents gave them a huge chunk of money for the down payment a few years ago after their wedding. Must be nice. But Cameron doesn\\\\u2019t complain about any of these things on the fifteen-minute drive there from his apartment. His old apartment. It\\\\u2019s Katie\\\\u2019s apartment, now. Her name alone is on the lease. When he first moved in, she was constantly on his case about calling the landlord to be officially added, because Katie always follows the rules. But after a while, she let it drop. Maybe she saw this coming. \\\\u201cWhat\\\\u2019s in the box?\\\\u201d Brad asks, interrupting his thoughts. \\\\u201cBaby vipers,\\\\u201d Cameron deadpans, not missing a beat. \\\\u201cDozens of them. I hope Elizabeth likes snakes.\\\\u201d Half an hour later, Brad slides a coaster across the coffee table before he hands Cameron a sweating pint glass, as Cameron finishes explaining what happened. \\\\u201cMaybe she\\\\u2019ll get over it,\\\\u201d Brad says, yawning. \\\\u201cJust give her a couple of days.\\\\u201d Cameron looks up. \\\\u201cShe threw my shit on the lawn, like something from some dumb chick-flick movie. Every damn thing I own.\\\\u201d Brad glances at the pile in the corner. \\\\u201cThat\\\\u2019s really everything you own?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI mean, not literally. But you know.\\\\u201d Cameron frowns. What about his Xbox, still parked in the cabinet under Katie\\\\u2019s TV? He\\\\u2019d skirted overdraft fees to buy that thing when it first came out. But it might as well be Katie\\\\u2019s now. Like hell is he going back there to beg for it. Maybe those couple of bags, and one dubious box, really are all he owns now. Cameron\\\\u2019s eyes fix on Brad\\\\u2019s oversized bay window when he continues, \\\\u201cWe can\\\\u2019t all live in a McMansion, you know.\\\\u201d It was meant as a joke, but the words spray out like acid. He attempts to soften his tone. \\\\u201cI mean, I\\\\u2019ve just been embracing my minimalist side.\\\\u201d Brad raises an eyebrow, stares at Cameron for a long moment, then raises his pint. \\\\u201cWell, here\\\\u2019s to new beginnings.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThanks for letting me crash again. I owe you one.\\\\u201d Cameron clinks, and lager sloshes over the rim, dribbling on the table. Seemingly out of thin air Brad comes up with a paper towel, then leans over to dab the spill. \\\\u201cYou owe me, like, ten. I charge extra for checking in after midnight.\\\\u201d Brad grins, but his eyes are serious. \\\\u201cAnd I know I don\\\\u2019t need to tell you this again, but you\\\\u2019ll owe me new furniture if you mess anything up.\\\\u201d Cameron nods. He got the same speech last week when he crashed on the couch after the bar. Elizabeth just got new living room furniture, and apparently its utilization for normal living room activities, like sitting and lounging, is a sensitive subject. He used to sleep in the guest room when he crashed here, but it\\\\u2019s been remodeled for the baby now. Just last month, Cameron patched the drywall in the closet, for payment in pizza, after Brad tore it up trying to install some ridiculous shelving system. Cameron could patch drywall in his sleep, and in fact he did one time. Or half-asleep, anyway. Or so the foreman of that job site claimed before sacking Cameron on the spot. \\\\u201cAnd seriously, Cam?\\\\u201d Brad continues. \\\\u201cTwo nights, tops.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cTen-four.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSo where are you gonna go?\\\\u201d Brad folds the beer-dampened paper towel and places it neatly on the edge of the table. Cameron props a sneaker over his knee and twists a fraying shoelace around his finger. \\\\u201cMaybe one of those new apartments downtown?\\\\u201d Brad sighs. \\\\u201cCam . . .\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat? I got a buddy who worked that job. He says they\\\\u2019re nice inside.\\\\u201d Cameron pictures himself settling into a wide leather sofa, digging his bare toes into brand-new carpet. He\\\\u2019ll need a flat-screen, of course, eighty inches at least. He\\\\u2019ll mount it to the wall and run the cords behind so they don\\\\u2019t show. Brad leans forward, lacing his hands. \\\\u201cThere\\\\u2019s no way in hell they\\\\u2019re going to rent one of those to you.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhy not?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cDude, you have no job.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNot true. I\\\\u2019m between projects right now.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAre you ever not between projects?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThe construction industry is cyclical.\\\\u201d Cameron straightens up, a bite creeping into his voice. What would Brad know about actual, physical work? He spends all day faffing around some dumpy little office, shuffling papers for the local electric utility. Brad used to talk about leaving, going to San Francisco or something. But he\\\\u2019ll never leave now, and Cameron knows why. His parents are here, Elizabeth\\\\u2019s, too, and now all four of them are about to be grandparents. The whole clan gets together for dinner on Sunday nights. Probably eats honey-glazed ham or some shit. Why would they ever leave? Cameron wonders if there\\\\u2019s some sort of special tether children of normal families are granted. One for which he\\\\u2019s never been eligible. \\\\u201cCam, what\\\\u2019s your credit score?\\\\u201d Cameron hesitates. Truth is, he has no clue. Hell would freeze before he\\\\u2019d check. When he got the Jeep a few years back, it was in the low six hundreds, but that was several questionable life choices ago. With a sarcastic smirk, he answers, \\\\u201cA hundred and twenty.\\\\u201d Brad shakes his head. \\\\u201cMaybe that\\\\u2019s your bowling score. Sure as hell\\\\u2019s not your credit score.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, what can I say? I\\\\u2019m awesome at bowling.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cObviously.\\\\u201d Cameron runs his fingers over the little series of punctures in the side of his sneaker. Probably from Katie\\\\u2019s dog, a teacup something-or-other with a taste for footwear, his in particular. The dog is such a pain in the ass, Katie sent it to live with her parents, but they brought it over every time they visited. At least he won\\\\u2019t have to deal with that garbage anymore. \\\\u201cWhy don\\\\u2019t you go back to school?\\\\u201d Brad suggests, not for the first time. \\\\u201cGet your associate\\\\u2019s degree or something.\\\\u201d Cameron grunts. Brad should be smart enough to realize college costs money Cameron doesn\\\\u2019t have. But suddenly, Cameron does have an idea. A good one. \\\\u201cYou know that apartment over Dell\\\\u2019s?\\\\u201d Brad nods. All the regulars at their watering hole know about the place upstairs. They joke sometimes that Old Al, the bartender, could make a killing renting it out by the hour. \\\\u201cThe other night, I heard Old Al say it\\\\u2019s empty,\\\\u201d Cameron continues. \\\\u201cMaybe he\\\\u2019d rent it to me.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHe might make you settle your tab first. But maybe.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ll ask him when we\\\\u2019re there for our gig next week.\\\\u201d Brad clears his throat. \\\\u201cNext week?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cFine. I\\\\u2019ll go over tomorrow.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cGood,\\\\u201d Brad says. Then he looks down. \\\\u201cBy the way, there\\\\u2019s something I need to tell you. I wanted to wait until everyone was together, but . . .\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBut what?\\\\u201d Cameron frowns. \\\\u201cJust spill it.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cUm. Our Moth Sausage show next week? It\\\\u2019ll be my last.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat?\\\\u201d Cameron feels like someone kicked him in the chest. \\\\u201cYeah, I\\\\u2019m quitting the band.\\\\u201d Brad grimaces. \\\\u201cWith the baby coming, Elizabeth and I think it\\\\u2019s best if\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re the lead singer,\\\\u201d Cameron blurts. \\\\u201cYou can\\\\u2019t quit.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSorry.\\\\u201d Brad looks like he\\\\u2019s shrinking in his chair. \\\\u201cCan you not tell the guys yet? I really wanted to wait until everyone was together.\\\\u201d Cameron stands and stalks over to the window. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s just that with the baby, things will be different,\\\\u201d Brad goes on. Cameron glares at Brad and Elizabeth\\\\u2019s front yard, its glowing landscape lights, the golf-course grass, the brick walkway. To his horror, a lump forms in his throat. Of course Brad would leave Moth Sausage when the baby came. He should\\\\u2019ve seen it coming. \\\\u201cI get it,\\\\u201d he says finally. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ll still come to the shows.\\\\u201d Cameron swallows a scoff. There won\\\\u2019t be any Moth Sausage shows without Brad. \\\\u201cElizabeth, too. Maybe we can bring the baby.\\\\u201d Brad lets out a long sigh. \\\\u201cI really am sorry.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s cool.\\\\u201d Cameron returns to the sofa and starts removing the decorative pillows, making a point to stack them extra neatly. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s late. I should sleep.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah, okay.\\\\u201d Brad hovers for an extra moment before picking up their empty glasses. \\\\u201cHang on, you need sheets,\\\\u201d he says before disappearing down the hallway. Sheets? For a couch? Since when? A minute later, Brad reappears with an unopened package of bedsheets, which he tosses at Cameron. They\\\\u2019re purple and white striped, and Cameron would bet anything Elizabeth picked them out. Purple has always been her favorite color. Brad is still hovering like a goddamn mosquito. \\\\u201cNeed a hand setting up?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNope.\\\\u201d Cameron flashes a tight smile. \\\\u201cNight.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOkay. Uh . . . night.\\\\u201d From the kitchen, Brad calls back, \\\\u201cDon\\\\u2019t let those baby vipers out.\\\\u201d Cameron doesn\\\\u2019t answer. \\\\n Day 1,307 of My Captivity HUMANS HAVE FEW REDEEMING QUALITIES, BUT THEIR fingerprints are miniature works of art. I am well-read in fingerprints. I suppose you could say it is one fortunate side effect of dealing with humans all day long, their trembling boogers and damp armpits, their sticky palms reeking of floral lotion and Popsicle residue. But when the doors lock for the night and the lights dim, they leave behind a stunning, intricate mural on the glass at the front of my tank. Sometimes I spend quite some time staring at them, studying. Little oval masterpieces. I visually trace the grooves from the outside into the center, then back out to the edge again. Each one unique. I remember all of them. Fingerprints are like keys, with their specific shape. I remember all keys, too. \\\\n Muckle Teeth Mrs. Sullivan?\\\\u201d Tova opens her trunk, preparing to start her shift, when a short man waving a manila envelope comes jogging across the Sowell Bay Aquarium\\\\u2019s parking lot, weaving around the typical handful of cars belonging to the evening fishermen and the day\\\\u2019s last joggers. Recognizable Sowell Bay vehicles, most of them. Somehow, Tova hadn\\\\u2019t even noticed the unfamiliar gray sedan from which this fellow just burst forth. \\\\u201cTova Sullivan?\\\\u201d he hollers again, approaching. She slams the hatchback shut. \\\\u201cMay I help you?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cGlad I finally found you!\\\\u201d he says, panting. As he catches his breath, he flashes a smile too large for his face, with oversized white teeth. They remind Tova of the bleached barnacles that cling to seaweed-strewn boulders down at the sound\\\\u2019s edge. He continues, \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re not an easy lady to track down, you know.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI beg your pardon?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYour address had my GPS going in circles, and your home phone just rings, no voice mail. Thought I was going to need a private investigator.\\\\u201d Warmth creeps up Tova\\\\u2019s neck at the suggestion that she might\\\\u2019ve allowed her answering machine to remain full, exacerbated by the fact that the accusation is basically true. But her voice is even when she says, \\\\u201cAn investigator?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt happens more often than you\\\\u2019d think.\\\\u201d He shakes his head, then extends his hand. \\\\u201cBruce LaRue. I\\\\u2019m an attorney for the estate of Lars Lindgren.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHow do you do.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cFirst of all, please let me say, I\\\\u2019m sorry for your loss.\\\\u201d His tone doesn\\\\u2019t sound particularly sorry. \\\\u201cWe were not close,\\\\u201d Tova explains. Again. \\\\u201cRight . . . I won\\\\u2019t take up too much of your time, then, but I needed to get this to you.\\\\u201d He thrusts the envelope at Tova. \\\\u201cYour brother had some personal assets, as you probably know.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cMr. LaRue, I have no knowledge of what my brother did or did not have.\\\\u201d She slides a finger under the seal on the envelope and peeks inside. It\\\\u2019s a document, a list of some sort, on Charter Village letterhead. \\\\u201cWell, now you know. We\\\\u2019ll need to get together at some point to sort out the monetary assets, but for now, that\\\\u2019s a list of his belongings. Just a few personal items.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI see.\\\\u201d Tova tucks the envelope under her arm. \\\\u201cYou can give them a call and let them know when you\\\\u2019ll swing by to pick everything up.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSwing by? Charter Village is all the way up in Bellingham. That\\\\u2019s an hour away.\\\\u201d LaRue shrugs. \\\\u201cLook, go get the stuff, or don\\\\u2019t. They\\\\u2019ll get rid of it after some time if no one shows up.\\\\u201d If no one shows up. To Tova\\\\u2019s knowledge, Lars never remarried after he and Denise split, but she\\\\u2019s always supposed he must\\\\u2019ve had a sweetheart or two. A close friend, at least. Isn\\\\u2019t that part of the reason people move to those homes? For the social scene? But this LaRue fellow seems to be implying that no one had shown up for Lars. Had ever shown up for him, maybe. Had he died in the company of some bored nurse? An aide counting the hours until shift\\\\u2019s end? \\\\u201cI will go,\\\\u201d she says quietly. \\\\u201cGreat. Then my work here is done, for now. I\\\\u2019ll be in touch.\\\\u201d LaRue flashes his grin again. \\\\u201cAny questions?\\\\u201d A great many questions swirl in Tova\\\\u2019s mind, but the one that tumbles out is \\\\u201cHow exactly did you find me here?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAh, a very friendly cashier up at that grocery store on the hill. I stopped in for a coffee, having failed to find you at your home address, and when we got to chatting, he mentioned you\\\\u2019d be down here. Nice guy. Talks with a heavy accent, like a leprechaun?\\\\u201d Tova sighs. Ethan. BY SOME SERENDIPITY, the aquarium is in decent shape tonight. No dried chewing gum to battle. Nothing sticky in the trash cans. No unspeakable bathroom messes. And, thankfully, everyone seems to be in their proper tank. \\\\u201cI see you back there.\\\\u201d The glass front of the octopus exhibit is smattered with greasy fingerprints, which Tova sprays and erases with her rag, while the creature stares at her from one of the upper corners. She\\\\u2019s now accustomed to finding his exhibit empty, seeing him instead with the sea cucumbers next door, which seem to be his preferred snack. Tova can\\\\u2019t say she approves, but it makes her smile. Their secret. He unfurls his arms and floats toward the front glass, never breaking his gaze. \\\\u201cNot hungry tonight, are we?\\\\u201d He blinks. \\\\u201cAn hour. On the freeway,\\\\u201d she mutters, leaning closer to scrub at a stubborn spot on the glass. \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t care for driving on the freeway, you know.\\\\u201d In his slow, almost prehistoric way, the octopus attaches an arm to the inside of the tank and draws his body closer. His suckers look bluish purple tonight, clinging to the glass. She wrings her rag. \\\\u201cAnd I don\\\\u2019t care for those homes, either. Retirement homes, nursing homes . . . all the same, aren\\\\u2019t they? Always smell like sick people.\\\\u201d Eye gleaming like some otherworldly marble, the octopus follows her every move as she folds the rag and tucks it away. Tova leans on the cart. \\\\u201cLars always left messes. And now he\\\\u2019s left one last thing for me to clean up, even after he\\\\u2019s died. His life was always a bit disorganized. Mind you, that wasn\\\\u2019t why we stopped speaking. No, that wasn\\\\u2019t the reason.\\\\u201d She tuts at herself. What is she doing, talking to this octopus? Not that she doesn\\\\u2019t always say hello to the creatures here, as fond of them as she is, but this is different. This is talking. But, good heavens, if it doesn\\\\u2019t feel like the creature is actually listening. Of all the impossible things. And anyway. There was no reason. Nothing, really. \\\\u201cWell, good night, sir.\\\\u201d Tova gives the octopus a polite nod, then moves along. At the seahorse exhibit, there\\\\u2019s a handwritten sign taped to the glass. Tova recognizes Terry\\\\u2019s scrawl: MATING! GIVE THEM SPACE! \\\\u201cOh!\\\\u201d Tova clasps a hand to her chest, peering cautiously around the paper. Is it that time again? Last year, Terry threw a little \\\\u201cbaby shower\\\\u201d for the entire staff, all eight of them, when the seahorses spawned. Mackenzie had stayed after her admissions shift to blow up balloons and paint a banner that read GIDDY-UP, LITTLE COWBOYS! Dr. Santiago, the veterinarian, had dropped by with a cake that read, in cursive icing: HIP-HIP-HOORAY FOR HIPPOCAMPUS BABIES! Generally, Tova avoids parties, but that cake had drawn intrigue. During Erik\\\\u2019s sophomore year, he made a posterboard project for honors biology on the hippocampus of the human brain. He devoted a whole panel to the etymology of the term, its derivation from ancient Greek, its shared meaning with the scientific term for the seahorse genus, and its mythological connection to sea monsters. Maybe we all have sea monsters living in our brains, Erik joked as he pasted chunks of paper onto the posterboard on their dining room table. Anyway, if Terry and Mackenzie had planned to repeat the gesture this year, it would be well underway. Tova hasn\\\\u2019t heard of it, although she\\\\u2019s sure they\\\\u2019d never exclude her. Not intentionally. If a celebration does happen, she supposes she\\\\u2019ll see the mess afterward. It\\\\u2019s absurd anyway. That\\\\u2019s what the Knit-Wits said last year, when she told them of it. Perhaps she\\\\u2019s the only person on earth who thinks hippocampus babies are more exciting than human ones. ETHAN IS WIPING down the Shop-Way register when she enters. He beams at her. \\\\u201cTova!\\\\u201d The shopping baskets sit in a neat pile next to the newspaper stand, but Tova marches right past them, past the short row of nested carts, too, directly to the register. She\\\\u2019s not here to shop. \\\\u201cGood evening, Ethan.\\\\u201d His face starts to flush. Within moments, it\\\\u2019s nearly as red as his beard. \\\\u201cI have just had a visitor at my place of employment. Do you know anything about that?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAye, the bloke with the muckle teeth.\\\\u201d Ethan folds his rag and tucks it in his apron pocket, looking sheepish. \\\\u201cI wouldn\\\\u2019t have told him if he hadn\\\\u2019t said it was important. Your brother\\\\u2019s estate and all.\\\\u201d Tova clucks her tongue. \\\\u201cEstate. Is that what he told you?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, yeah. Who wouldn\\\\u2019t want an estate?\\\\u201d Tova sighs. Is there any local drama into which Ethan is not champing at the bit to insert himself? Stiffly, she continues, \\\\u201cApparently, my brother left some personal effects in the nursing home where he died. Nothing worthwhile, I\\\\u2019m certain, but now I must go retrieve them.\\\\u201d Ethan looks genuinely contrite, regret clouding his wide green eyes. \\\\u201cBloody hell, Tova. I\\\\u2019m sorry.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s at least an hour\\\\u2019s drive.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAye, bit of a haul,\\\\u201d he says, picking at a callus on his thumb. Tova inspects her sneakers. She is not in the habit of asking for help, but Ethan had seemed genuine in his offer, and the thought of two hours on the freeway makes her uneasy. \\\\u201cI should like to take you up on your offer.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOffer?\\\\u201d Ethan looks up, his voice a touch brighter. \\\\u201cYes. If I need anything at all, you said. Well, there is something.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAnything, love. What do you need?\\\\u201d Tova swallows hard. \\\\u201cA ride to Bellingham.\\\\u201d \\\\n Day 1,308 of My Captivity THE SEAHORSES ARE AT IT AGAIN. The humans display shock and excitement, as though this were a surprise. I assure you, it is not. The seahorses spawn at the same time every year. I have witnessed four of their breeding cycles during my captivity here. There will be hundreds of seahorse larvae. Thousands, perhaps. They begin as a cloud of eggs and, over several days, transform into a clump of wiggling limbs, bearing no resemblance to their parents. In fact, they look like small versions of the sea worms that prowl the sands of the main tank. It is fascinating how a freshly born creature can be so unlike its creator. Obviously, this is not the case with humans. I have observed humans at every life stage, and they are, at all times, undeniably human. Even though the human baby is helpless and must be carried by its parent, no one could mistake it for anything else. Humans grow from small to large and then sometimes recede again as they approach the end of their life span, but they always have four limbs, twenty digits, two eyes on the front of their heads. Their dependence upon their parents is unusually prolonged. Certainly it makes sense that the smallest children require assistance with the most basic of tasks: eating, drinking, urinating, defecating. Their short stature and clumsy limbs make these activities difficult. But as they gain physical independence, oddly, their struggle continues. They summon mother or father at the slightest need: an untied shoelace, a sealed juice box, a minor conflict with another child. Young humans would fail abysmally in the sea. I do not know how a giant Pacific octopus spawns. How might my larvae look? Are we shape-shifters like seahorses, or humdrum, like humans? I suppose I shall never know. Tomorrow, there will be crowds. Terry may even allow the main doors to stay open late to accommodate additional humans who wish to see the seahorses spawn. These rule benders will scurry past my tank, most of them uninterested in anything else. Every so often, one will pause here. With these, I always play a game. I unfurl my arms and let them waft in the artificial current of the pump. One by one I sucker my tentacles to the glass, and the human draws nearer. Then I pull my mantle to the front of the tank and stare into its eyes. The human calls its companions to come look. As soon as I hear their footsteps around the bend, I jet back behind my rock, leaving nothing but a whoosh of water. How predictable you humans are! With one exception. The elderly female who mops the floors does not play my games. Instead, she speaks to me. We . . . converse. \\\\n Happy Endings For the umpteenth time, Ethan\\\\u2019s thoughts circle back to the Knit-Wits. Any of those ladies could\\\\u2019ve given Tova a lift to Bellingham. Surely they\\\\u2019re aware of her reluctance to drive on the freeway. But she asked him. This morning, he awoke an hour early so he\\\\u2019d have time to shower and trim up his beard, get himself sharp and tidy. Everyone knows how much Tova likes things neat and clean. Because he was up at the crack of dawn, he consumed an extra mug of tea, and maybe that\\\\u2019s why he can\\\\u2019t stop his fingers from thrumming on the steering wheel like he\\\\u2019s jamming on a piano. \\\\u201cAre you all right?\\\\u201d Tova asks, again, from the passenger seat. She drops her crossword pencil onto the newspaper resting on her lap and brushes a speck of lint from the upholstered seat. He should\\\\u2019ve hauled his arse out of bed at five this morning instead of six. Then he would\\\\u2019ve had time to tidy up his truck as well as himself. \\\\u201cAye, I\\\\u2019m all right. Why do you ask?\\\\u201d A pretty smile spreads over her face. \\\\u201cHoneybee hands.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHoneybee what? \\\\u201cHoneybee hands. You know . . . busy. That\\\\u2019s what I used to say when Erik couldn\\\\u2019t keep his fingers still.\\\\u201d Startled at the mention of that name, Ethan takes a deep breath and wills the jitters out of his limbs. \\\\u201cHoneybee hands. Clever.\\\\u201d In his mind, he assembles an explanation about too much caffeine this morning, but when he glances over a moment later, she\\\\u2019s reabsorbed in her puzzle, tapping the eraser on her chin as she studies the fold of newspaper. Scrap that one, then. He scans for any of the other conversation starters he\\\\u2019d spent half the night rehearsing, but he somehow comes up blank. The only topics that surface are off-limits: dead brother, dead husband, dead son. Sheesh. He\\\\u2019s still in shock she brought Erik up a moment ago, but clearly that moment has passed. Instead, what comes out is: \\\\u201cWhat\\\\u2019s that you\\\\u2019re working on?\\\\u201d Which is a ridiculous question. Anyone can see it\\\\u2019s a crossword. She frowns. \\\\u201cYesterday\\\\u2019s puzzle. I\\\\u2019m afraid I\\\\u2019ve fallen behind.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBehind?\\\\u201d He chuckles. \\\\u201cYou mean you do that thing every day?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOf course. It\\\\u2019s the daily crossword. I complete it daily.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAnd if you miss a day? You . . . catch up?\\\\u201d Her pencil scratches as she fills in a set of boxes. \\\\u201cNaturally.\\\\u201d THE CHARTER VILLAGE Long-Term Care Center is tucked into a series of rolling green hills sliced through by a long winding driveway. As they motor through the campus, smaller parkways splinter off the main one, each with a signpost. MEMORY CENTER. TENNIS COMPLEX. ACUTE CARE. CLUBHOUSE. This place has it all. Finally, a signpost points toward RECEPTION and Ethan leans on the accelerator. He lets out a low whistle as he pulls around the circular drive, past a pair of maroon-brick columns dressed in ivy. Downright posh. It looks like a fancy prep school or university, not a wretched place where old folks come to play tennis before eventually withering away. \\\\u201cThis is it, love?\\\\u201d Tova\\\\u2019s face is stone. \\\\u201cYes, it seems so.\\\\u201d Ethan cuts the ignition and gives her a puzzled look. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019ve never been here before?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI have not.\\\\u201d He resists the urge to unleash another low whistle. Tova had said Lars lived here for a decade. Had she really not visited even once? She gathers her purse, tucking the newspaper inside. \\\\u201cShall we?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAye.\\\\u201d Ethan scrambles out and hurries around the truck, hoping to reach the passenger side in time to open her door for her, but by the time he gets there, she\\\\u2019s already striding toward the stately building. For the first half hour, Ethan waits in the reception area, and the minutes drag. The leather chairs are remarkably plush, but the reading material is absolute shit. National Geographic, AARP The Magazine, and a handful of dry Wall Street rags. Couldn\\\\u2019t they spring for something halfway interesting, like Rolling Stone, or even People? Celebrity gossip has always been Ethan\\\\u2019s guilty pleasure. His honeybee hands come back, drumming impatiently on the low coffee table. He rises and inspects the refreshment table in the corner of the lobby, which, inexplicably, offers coffee, but not tea. All of this leather and ivy, and they can\\\\u2019t even furnish a spot of Earl Grey? What rubbish! He plucks a disposable cup from the stack and pours a cup of decaf anyway, because it\\\\u2019s free. He doesn\\\\u2019t particularly enjoy coffee. When Ethan was nineteen, he worked for a stint at the kiddie zoo down in Glasgow, shoveling the elephant pen. Once, as a joke, two of the other blokes that worked there collected feces and ran it through a juice press. What came out looked remarkably like . . . coffee. Never been the same since, coffee hasn\\\\u2019t. When Tova had whisked off toward the inside of the facility, he insisted she take her time going through her brother\\\\u2019s things, but now he realizes he has no context for how long such an activity might take. Will he be waiting here all day? He should have brought a book. From the front desk, there\\\\u2019s a gaggle of voices. Some folks assembling for a tour of the facility, looks like. The woman leading the group, wearing a gray suit and a sleek amber ponytail, addresses the small cluster in a clear, confident voice. \\\\u201cWelcome to Charter Village, where happy endings are our specialty.\\\\u201d Ethan nearly spits out his coffee. Happy endings? Who came up with that one? Gray Suit frowns at him. \\\\u201cSir?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAye?\\\\u201d Ethan wipes dribbled coffee from his chin with his sleeve. \\\\u201cAre you joining us?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cMe?\\\\u201d He looks over his shoulder, as if there might be another \\\\u201csir\\\\u201d behind him. Then he shrugs. \\\\u201cSure, why not?\\\\u201d Something to pass the time, anyway. \\\\u201cThis way, then.\\\\u201d With a polite smile, she motions him toward the group. ETHAN MUST ADMIT: the residents do seem happy. Maybe that ridiculous slogan isn\\\\u2019t off base. There\\\\u2019s a billiard room, a cafeteria with a mile-long buffet, even a pool and Jacuzzi. Residents can get room service, and the beds are made up daily with six-hundred-thread-count sheets. By the time the tour starts to wrap up, Ethan finds himself half-convinced to move in. As if he could afford it. His union pension wouldn\\\\u2019t go far in a place like this. WHEN TOVA SURFACES an hour later clutching a box, Ethan springs from the plush reception leather chair. \\\\u201cAll right, then, love?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cCertainly.\\\\u201d Tova looks so little in her purple cardigan, and the box makes her frame seem even more slight. This time, he beats her to the car door. Chivalrously, he opens it and steps aside for her to enter, for which she thanks him politely. Then he takes the box and finds a space for it behind the passenger seat. But there\\\\u2019s something else, too. A glossy page with an image of the community center and tennis courts. Some bloke with a full head of silver hair and white shorts swinging a racket. As Tova is fiddling with her seat belt, he steals a longer peek. It\\\\u2019s not just a slick brochure. It\\\\u2019s a whole packet. A sleek Charter Village folder with that terrible motto: \\\\u201cWe Specialize in Happy Endings!\\\\u201d There\\\\u2019s one page not neatly aligned in the folder. An application. \\\\n Day 1,309 of My Captivity YOU HUMANS LOVE COOKIES. I ASSUME YOU KNOW WHICH food I mean? Circular, about the size of a common clamshell. Some are flecked with dark bits, others are painted or dusted with powder. Cookies can be soft and quiet, moving soundlessly on their journey through human jaws. Cookies can be loud and messy, bits breaking off at the bite, crumbs tumbling down a chin, adding to the flotsam on the floor that the elderly female called Tova must sweep. I have observed many cookies during my captivity here. They are sold in the packaged food machine near the front entrance. Imagine my confusion, then, at the remark made by Dr. Santiago earlier this evening. \\\\u201cWhat can I say, Terry?\\\\u201d Dr. Santiago raised her shoulders and held her hands up. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ve seen a lot of octopuses, but you\\\\u2019ve got a smart cookie here.\\\\u201d They were discussing the so-called puzzle: hinged box made of clear plastic with a latch on the lid. There was a crab inside. Terry lowered it into my tank. He and Dr. Santiago leaned down to peer through the glass. Without delay, I seized the box, opened the latch, lifted the lid, and ate the crab. It was a red rock crab, one that was molting. Soft and juicy. I consumed it in a single bite. This did not please Terry and Dr. Santiago. They frowned and they argued. I gathered they anticipated my dismantling of the box to take longer. I am a smart cookie. Well, of course I am intelligent. All octopuses are. I remember each and every human face that pauses to gaze at my tank. Patterns come readily to me. I know how the sunrise will play on the upper wall at dawn, shifting each day as the season progresses. When I choose to hear, I hear everything. I can tell when the tide is turning to ebb, outside the prison walls, based on the tone of the water crashing against the rocks. When I choose to see, my vision is precise. I can tell which particular human has touched the glass of my tank by the fingerprints left behind. Learning to read their letters and words was easy. I can use tools. I can solve puzzles. None of the other prisoners have such skills. My neurons number half a billion, and they are distributed among my eight arms. On occasion, I have wondered whether I might have more intelligence in a single tentacle than a human does in its entire skull. Smart cookie. I am smart, but I am not a snack object dispensed from a packaged food machine. What a preposterous thing to say. \\\\n Maybe Not Marrakesh McMansionville is too quiet. No footsteps thumping on the ceiling from the upstairs apartment. Cameron\\\\u2019s phone battery blinks red, nearly drained. He digs in the bottom of his duffel for his charging cord, but it\\\\u2019s sitting on Katie\\\\u2019s nightstand. He can practically see it there. Left behind, leaving him literally powerless. Maybe Brad or Elizabeth has a spare. He creeps into their kitchen, opening drawers as quietly as he can. Silverware in neat rows, an entire pull-out devoted to oven mitts. Who needs that many oven mitts? Are they cooking for an infantry unit? Most are monogramed. Elizabeth and Bradley Burnett: EBB. Like an ebb tide. As if the two of them are headed right on out to sea, waving to him as he\\\\u2019s left alone on the shore. \\\\u201cHey,\\\\u201d comes a voice from the hallway. \\\\u201cElizabeth!\\\\u201d Cameron slams the drawer shut. As if mocking him, it closes slowly and softly, the way these fancy cabinets do. \\\\u201cDidn\\\\u2019t mean to startle you.\\\\u201d She smiles, an empty cup in one hand. The other rests on her belly, which is trying to bust out of a pale blue robe. \\\\u201cUp for a drink, which means I\\\\u2019ll need to pee again in an hour. My bladder is the size of a jelly bean these days.\\\\u201d She flicks on the light then pads over to the refrigerator and presses her cup under the water dispenser. \\\\u201cI can\\\\u2019t believe you guys are going to have a baby,\\\\u201d Cameron says. Brad and Elizabeth have been married three years, and of course Cameron was best man at their wedding, but it\\\\u2019s still just . . . weird. Elizabeth was his best friend since kindergarten, and Brad was a good guy, but always hovering on the periphery of their friend group. Never good enough for Elizabeth in high school, but somehow, they got together a few years later. Now married, now a baby. \\\\u201cA baby? I thought I was just bloated.\\\\u201d Elizabeth\\\\u2019s eyes crinkle, teasing. \\\\u201cHow come you\\\\u2019re awake, anyway?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cPhone\\\\u2019s dead.\\\\u201d He holds up the moribund device. \\\\u201cYou guys have an extra charger?\\\\u201d Elizabeth gestures. \\\\u201cJunk drawer.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThanks.\\\\u201d He pulls out a neatly coiled cord. Grimacing, Elizabeth eases herself up onto one of the bar stools lining the island counter and takes a long drink of water. \\\\u201cSorry to hear about you and Katie.\\\\u201d He slumps onto the stool next to her. \\\\u201cI screwed that up.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSounds like it.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThanks for the sympathy, Lizard-breath.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAnytime, Camel-tron,\\\\u201d she says with a grin, returning the childhood nickname. \\\\u201cSo, what happens now?\\\\u201d Cameron picks at the fraying spot on the cuff of his favorite hoodie, depositing the greenish thread bits in a pile on the counter. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ll get a new place. Maybe that apartment over Dell\\\\u2019s.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cDell\\\\u2019s? Gross.\\\\u201d Elizabeth wrinkles her nose. \\\\u201cYou can do better than that. Besides, who wants Uncle Cam smelling like stale beer when he comes to see the baby?\\\\u201d Cameron drops his head, letting it rest on the cool granite for a moment before looking back up. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m not exactly flush with options here.\\\\u201d Elizabeth leans across the counter and sweeps the thread bits into her palm. \\\\u201cThat sweatshirt is also gross, by the way. Brad threw his out a long time ago.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat? Why?\\\\u201d It\\\\u2019s not official Moth Sausage gear, exactly, but the whole band got them. Years ago. Always planned to get them screen printed. \\\\u201cWhen was the last time you washed it?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cLast week,\\\\u201d Cameron says with a huff. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m not an animal.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, it\\\\u2019s still gross. It\\\\u2019s falling apart. And I\\\\u2019ll never understand why you guys picked that baby-poo color.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s Moth Green!\\\\u201d Elizabeth studies him for a long moment. \\\\u201cWhy don\\\\u2019t you, like, travel or something?\\\\u201d she says quietly. \\\\u201cWhat\\\\u2019s keeping you here?\\\\u201d He blinks. \\\\u201cWhere would I go?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSan Francisco. London, Bangkok, Marrakesh.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh, sure. I\\\\u2019ll just summon my Lear. Fly halfway around the world.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOkay, maybe not Marrakesh.\\\\u201d She lowers her voice. \\\\u201cTo be honest, I\\\\u2019m not even sure where that is. It was part of a puzzle on Wheel of Fortune last night.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s in Morocco,\\\\u201d Cameron answers almost automatically. Not somewhere he\\\\u2019s ever been or will ever go. \\\\u201cRight, smarty-pants. Well, maybe I\\\\u2019d have learned that if Brad and I hadn\\\\u2019t both fallen asleep on the couch while it was on.\\\\u201d Cameron crinkles his nose. \\\\u201cRemind me never to get married.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ll be shocked if you ever do.\\\\u201d She shakes her head, then snakes an arm under her massive belly, wincing. \\\\u201cOkay, back to bed for me. The good news is,\\\\u201d she says as she crosses the kitchen and deposits her glass in the sink, \\\\u201cI already have to pee again. Thanks for the chat. Two birds, one stone.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re welcome.\\\\u201d He heads back toward the living room, clutching the phone charger. \\\\u201cSee you in the morning.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cUntil then.\\\\u201d She flicks off the light and disappears down the hallway. AN HOUR. Two. Three. Bluish light from his phone screen bathes Cameron\\\\u2019s face. Katie had gone through a phase where she tried to ban phones from their bedroom after she read some article about how the light was addictive. Messed up your brain waves somehow. He\\\\u2019d always assumed it was nonsense, but now his eyes burn in the screen\\\\u2019s glow and his brain feels scrambled. Of course, there\\\\u2019s nothing new on any of Katie\\\\u2019s social media feeds. He\\\\u2019s combed through all of them several times. She hasn\\\\u2019t blocked him. Yet. His index finger hovers over her name. One touch to make the call. But probably she\\\\u2019s asleep, sleeping easier than ever with him gone. He\\\\u2019d never really belonged there. It was never his place. He needs to let it go. He pulls up a listing app for apartments and scrolls through the photos, each floor plan with wide sunny windows and gleaming countertops. Every single one features a bowl of fresh fruit in its kitchen, two oranges, a single yellow banana, and a bunch of shiny red apples. It\\\\u2019s the same exact bowl of fruit. Like, they must have moved it from unit to unit with them. Who gets the fruit when they\\\\u2019re done taking all those pictures of it? And who eats red apples, anyway? It would be better marketing to lay out a piping-hot pizza and a six-pack of beer. Those fancy-fruit apartments aren\\\\u2019t for him. The place over Dell\\\\u2019s will be good enough. Old Al\\\\u2019s not an idiot, though. He\\\\u2019ll want a deposit. Time to open that box and see if his deadbeat momma left anything worthwhile he can pawn. As he\\\\u2019s retrieving it from the living room, a security light blinks on outside, in the front yard. Cameron freezes, but it\\\\u2019s just a raccoon. The fattest raccoon he\\\\u2019s ever seen. Even the vermin live large out here. He half expects the thing to scowl at him through the window and ask him what he\\\\u2019s doing up at this hour, like some middle-aged soccer dad. The box makes a series of soft hisses as he nudges it across the room with a socked toe. He plops on the couch, and a puff of dust makes him cough as soon as he yanks open the first flap. Aunt Jeanne\\\\u2019s doctor is always blaming her cigarette habit for her chronic hacking, but the filth in that trailer must be at least as much to blame. Now that the seed has been planted, the thought of a smoke is beyond tantalizing right now. He really should quit. But he picks up the box, stuffs what\\\\u2019s left of his last pack into the pocket of his joggers, and heads outside. Moonlight illuminates the box\\\\u2019s contents as he starts to lay out the items, one by one, on the patio table. The suspense is surprisingly exhilarating. Maybe those storage-unit bidding-war reality shows are onto something. But the thrill is short-lived. This shit is basic. A box of gross, half-used lipsticks. A folder of handwritten papers that look like high school essays. Boring and worthless. A concert ticket stub, Whitesnake at the Seattle Center Coliseum, August 14, 1988. Totally useless, and also, questionable taste in music. About a million scrunchies, or whatever those things are girls use to hold their ponytails. A bunch of ancient cassette tapes. Shitty hair bands, mostly. A few blank, like the kind you\\\\u2019d record a mixtape on. Could be interesting, but who has a tape player these days? And in any case, zero resale value. Cameron takes a drag on his cigarette. What a supreme disappointment. Why had Aunt Jeanne wanted to give him this crap? Nothing conjures even an ounce of warmth toward his mother. And, more important, nothing will generate even a cent of cash. He picks up the empty box and a small black drawstring bag tumbles out. Jewelry. Jackpot! Four bracelets, seven necklaces, two empty lockets, one broken silver chain. Nothing diamond-like, unfortunately, but some of it seems to be real gold. Worth pawning, anyway. He smooths the bag to make sure it\\\\u2019s empty, but it isn\\\\u2019t. There\\\\u2019s something stuck in the bottom. He shakes it, and the thing finally dislodges and tumbles out. It\\\\u2019s a wad of paper . . . but it\\\\u2019s too heavy to be a wad of paper. No, it\\\\u2019s a crusty old photo, folded around a big, chunky class ring. Bringing it inches from his face, he reads the engraving. SOWELL BAY HIGH SCHOOL, CLASS OF 1989. He flattens the photo, and even in the half dark he recognizes a teenage version of his mother, smiling, her arms around a man he\\\\u2019s never seen before. \\\\n Bugatti and Blondie Before Will got sick, Tova used to pack a picnic for two: cheese, fruit, sometimes a bottle of red wine with two plastic tumblers. At Hamilton Park, if the tide was low, they\\\\u2019d scramble down and sit on the beach under the seawall. They\\\\u2019d bury their bare feet in the coarse sand and let the cold, foamy sound lick their ankles as it washed ashore. Tova pulls her hatchback into the empty lot. \\\\u201cPark\\\\u201d has always been a generous term for the narrow strip of soggy grass, its two weather-worn picnic tables, and the drinking fountain that never works. Now, Tova comes here to be alone with her thoughts, when she needs a break from being alone in her house. When even the television can\\\\u2019t punch through the unbearable quiet. The top of the picnic table is surprisingly hot to the touch, burning under the now clear blue skies, basking in summer\\\\u2019s sudden arrival. She opens the newspaper to the crossword and brushes away eraser crumbs. The tide is low and the water is calm, waves plopping onto the beach with heavy, lazy laps. Within minutes Tova wishes she\\\\u2019d brought a hat; it\\\\u2019s so hot the sun burns on the crown of her head. \\\\u201cLet\\\\u2019s see,\\\\u201d she addresses the crossword. Half its squares are filled, the product of her morning coffee hour. She resumes with Six Letters: Harry of Blondie. She traces her pencil under the clue. The rock band Blondie. She bought Erik a cassette for Christmas one year. He\\\\u2019d been about ten, so maybe it was \\\\u201979 or \\\\u201980? He played it on repeat for months, until the tape warbled. Tova can picture the cassette\\\\u2019s cover: a red-lipped blonde in a shimmery dress. She can\\\\u2019t imagine that lady being called Harry. So perhaps this clue is about something else. Tova moves on, as she does. The next clue is Three Letters: Flannel feature. \\\\u201cTalk about a softball,\\\\u201d Tova mutters as she fills in the squares: N, A, P. The whizz of a coasting bicycle interrupts Tova\\\\u2019s contemplation of Six Letters: Italian automaker Bugatti. Then two clicks, unclipping from pedals. The man\\\\u2019s fancy cleats force him to walk awkwardly as he crosses the pavement to the drinking fountain. He\\\\u2019s tall and lean, but his waddle makes Tova think of a penguin. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019ll find it useless, I\\\\u2019m afraid,\\\\u201d Tova says. \\\\u201cHuh?\\\\u201d The man turns toward Tova as if surprised she\\\\u2019s there. \\\\u201cThe drinking fountain. Out of order.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh. Uh, thanks.\\\\u201d Tova peers over her shoulder and watches him position his mouth over the spigot. He curses as he turns the handle. \\\\u201cThe town should fix that,\\\\u201d he grumbles. He takes off his sunglasses and looks out at the sound with a parched sort of look, as if wondering how bad the seawater could really taste. Tova fishes an unopened bottle of water from the bottom of her bag. She always keeps one on hand, just in case. \\\\u201cWould you like a drink?\\\\u201d He holds up a palm. \\\\u201cOh no. I couldn\\\\u2019t.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cPlease, I insist.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, okay.\\\\u201d The man\\\\u2019s cleats squish in the grass as he walks over. He twists open the bottle and chugs, washing the whole thing down in seconds. \\\\u201cThanks. It\\\\u2019s hotter out here than I expected.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYes, I should say so. Summer has finally arrived.\\\\u201d He sets his sunglasses on the table and sits across from her. \\\\u201cHuh. I didn\\\\u2019t know people still did crosswords.\\\\u201d He leans over the paper, craning his neck at the puzzle. Reluctantly, Tova rotates the paper so it\\\\u2019s sideways to both of them. They gaze together at it. Somewhere over the sound, a seagull squawks, ringing through the silence. Tova suppresses a cringe as a drop of sweat falls from the man\\\\u2019s chin, bleeding the newsprint on the advice column. \\\\u201cEttore,\\\\u201d he says suddenly. \\\\u201cI beg your pardon?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cEttore. Six letters for Italian automaker. Ettore Bugatti,\\\\u201d the man says with a grin. \\\\u201cThose are bitchin\\\\u2019 cars.\\\\u201d Tova pencils in the letters. The word fits. \\\\u201cThank you,\\\\u201d she says. \\\\u201cOh! And that one\\\\u2019s Debbie. Debbie Harry of Blondie.\\\\u201d Of course. Tova clicks her tongue, scolding herself as she writes. When the letters fit, the man holds his hand up for a high five. Tova hesitates, then slaps her small palm against his large, damp one. A silly gesture, but she allows herself a smile. \\\\u201cMan, I had a crush on Debbie Harry back in the day,\\\\u201d he says, chuckling, eyes crinkling around the edges. Tova nods. \\\\u201cYes, my son was fond of her, too.\\\\u201d The man stares at her. His eyes widen. \\\\u201cHoly shit,\\\\u201d he whispers. \\\\u201cI beg your pardon?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re Erik Sullivan\\\\u2019s mom.\\\\u201d Tova stills. \\\\u201cYes, I am.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWow,\\\\u201d the man says under his breath. \\\\u201cAnd you are?\\\\u201d Tova forces herself to ask this particular question, tamping down the others which threaten to spill out, the endless iterations of did you know him, were you there, what do you know? \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m Adam Wright. I went to school with Erik. We had a few classes together, senior year, before he . . .\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBefore he died.\\\\u201d Tova fills in the blank again. \\\\u201cRight. I\\\\u2019m . . . so sorry.\\\\u201d He clips into his pedals. \\\\u201cUm, I should get going. Thanks for the drink.\\\\u201d The bike\\\\u2019s chain whirs as he rides off. For a long time, Tova sits at the picnic table with the unfinished puzzle, running through all of the questions she ought to have asked him. Willing herself to breathe. This Adam Wright. Was he one of the ones who came to the service? Who sat in that candlelight vigil they held on the football field at the school? AT HOME, LAUNDRY waits. It\\\\u2019s Wednesday, which means stripping the bed and washing the sheets, along with the week\\\\u2019s towels. Folded in a neat pile on top of her washing machine is the flannel bathrobe that she retrieved from Charter Village last week. Lars wore it nonstop for years, the nurse had explained. Tova wishes she\\\\u2019d left it there. Why would she want her dead brother\\\\u2019s old housecoat? Couldn\\\\u2019t they wash it and pass it on to someone else? Donate it to charity? Cut it up into rags for cleaning, which is what Tova usually does with her own clothing when it\\\\u2019s outrun its useful life? Many people cherish things like this, the nurse said when Tova hesitated. So now it sits in her house, a reminder to Tova of how she is unlike many people. Last week, she\\\\u2019d held a pair of scissors to its hem, ready to make rags, before changing her mind, deciding she had plenty of rags for now. The collection of Lars\\\\u2019s personal effects also included a small stack of photographs. Some were very old, slices of the childhood she and Lars shared. These, Tova filed among the boxes of family photos in her attic, tucking them between her own albums. Some were rather new, relatively speaking, featuring faces Tova didn\\\\u2019t recognize. Slices of the life Lars led after their estrangement. Middle-aged adults smiling at a cocktail party, a group of hikers pausing under a mountain waterfall. This was a Lars she never knew. These, she threw in the trash. There was one photo that fit neither of these categories. It featured Lars with a teenage Erik on a sailboat, perched side by side. Two pairs of long legs dangling, suntans offset by the boat\\\\u2019s bright white hull. It was Lars who taught Erik to sail. Showed him every trick in the book, a solution to every improbable nautical scenario. Such as, how to leave an anchor rope cut clean. This photo hurt to look at. Tova nearly tossed it in the trash but stopped at the last minute and buried it in the back of her kitchen drawer that held pot holders and towels, even though it didn\\\\u2019t belong there, either. \\\\n Day 1,311 of My Captivity IF THERE IS ONE TOPIC OF CONVERSATION HUMANS never exhaust, it is the status of their outdoor environment. And for as much as they discuss it, their incredulity is . . . well, incredible. That preposterous phrase: Can you believe this weather we\\\\u2019re having? How many times have I heard it? One thousand, nine hundred and ten, to be exact. One and a half times a day, on average. Tell me again about the intelligence of humans. They cannot even manage to comprehend predictable meteorological events. Imagine if I were to stride over to my neighbors, the sea jellies, and, while shaking my mantle with disbelief, make a comment such as: Can you believe these bubbles these tanks are putting out today? Preposterous. (Of course, this would also be preposterous because the jellies would not answer. They cannot communicate on that level. And they cannot be taught. Believe me, I have tried.) Sun, rain, clouds, fog, hail, sleet, snow. Human beings have walked their earth on two feet for hundreds of millennia. One might think they would believe it already. Today, salty-smelling sweat collected on their foreheads. Some of them fashioned the pamphlets handed out at the entrance into fans and waved them in front of their faces. Nearly all of them wore shorter garments, revealing their fleshy legs and strappy shoes that slapped back on their feet with each step. And they refused to cease their prattle about the heat. Can you believe this weather we\\\\u2019re having? Seventeen times today. A change of season has come. It has been coming for a while, as it does, with longer periods of light and shorter periods of dark. Soon I will see the longest day of the year. Summer solstice, the humans call it. My final summer solstice. \\\\n Nothing Stays Sunk Forever The following afternoon, Tova sits next to Barbara Vanderhoof under a hair dryer at Colette\\\\u2019s Beauty Shop, which has occupied the same storefront with a painted-pink door in downtown Sowell Bay for nearly fifty years. Colette herself is in her seventies, same as the Knit-Wits, but she refuses to retire and fully cede the salon to the younger stylists she\\\\u2019s hired over the years. Thankfully. Although Tova is hardly a vain woman, she allows herself this indulgence. And there\\\\u2019s no one else she\\\\u2019d trust to do her hair in just the right way. A few minutes earlier, she watched Colette trim Barb with her deft and careful hand. Colette really is the best hairdresser around. \\\\u201cTova, dear. How are you doing?\\\\u201d Barb leans over as far as the helmetlike dryer will allow, putting undue emphasis on the word \\\\u201cdoing.\\\\u201d As if preemptively cutting off any attempt Tova might make to feign her own okay-ness. Barbara has always been efficient about slicing away other people\\\\u2019s nonsense, a quality Tova can\\\\u2019t help but admire. But Tova also prides herself on maintaining no such veneer. She answers, truthfully, \\\\u201cQuite all right.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cLars was a good man.\\\\u201d Barb removes her glasses, letting them dangle from the beaded chain around her neck, and dots her seeping eyes with the corner of a handkerchief. Tova bites back the urge to scoff. It isn\\\\u2019t the first time she\\\\u2019s watched Barbara insert herself into another person\\\\u2019s tragedy like this. Barb and Lars couldn\\\\u2019t have met more than a handful of times, back in those early years, before Tova and Lars began to fall out of one another\\\\u2019s lives. \\\\u201cHe went peacefully,\\\\u201d Tova says with an air of authority, not adding that this is thirdhand knowledge. But the woman at Charter Village had clasped her arm intently while assuring her that Lars would\\\\u2019ve felt no pain at the end. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s a blessing to go peacefully,\\\\u201d Barb says, clasping her bosom. \\\\u201cAnd the facility was quite nice.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh?\\\\u201d Barb cocks her head. This is new information to her. Tova hadn\\\\u2019t mentioned her trip to Bellingham to the Knit-Wits, and it seems, for once, Ethan Mack has kept mum about something while ringing up groceries at the Shop-Way. \\\\u201cYes, I went to fetch his personal effects. Mind you, there wasn\\\\u2019t much. But the home was clean and well-run.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhere was he?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cCharter Village. Up in Bellingham.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh!\\\\u201d Barb jams her glasses back on and thumbs through the magazine on her lap. \\\\u201cThis place here?\\\\u201d She holds up a full-spread advertisement featuring a photo of the stately Charter Village campus, its lawn unnaturally green under a cloudless sky. \\\\u201cYes, that\\\\u2019s the one.\\\\u201d Barb moves the page inches from her nose, squinting at the small print. \\\\u201cLook! It says they have a saltwater pool. A movie theater.\\\\u201d Tova doesn\\\\u2019t look. \\\\u201cDo they really?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAnd a spa!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt was certainly fancier than expected,\\\\u201d Tova agrees. With a dismissive exhale, Barb shuts the magazine. \\\\u201cStill. My Andie would never put me in a home . . .\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOf course not.\\\\u201d Tova nods, her lips not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. Barb fans herself with the magazine. It gets hot under the helmet dryers. \\\\u201cYes, well.\\\\u201d Tova picks up a well-worn copy of Reader\\\\u2019s Digest from the low table next to the dryer and pretends to read the table of contents. Naturally, she knows about the saltwater pool and the movie theater and the spa. The packet she\\\\u2019d taken from Charter Village is sitting on her coffee table at home. She\\\\u2019s read through it three times, at least. \\\\u201cReady, Tova?\\\\u201d Colette\\\\u2019s chipper voice calls from across the salon. Tova pushes the space-age helmet up and gathers her pocketbook, bidding Barbara Vanderhoof a polite farewell before going to get her hair finished. THAT EVENING AT the aquarium, Terry\\\\u2019s office light is on. Tova pokes her head through the door to say hello. \\\\u201cHey, Tova!\\\\u201d Terry waves her in. A white takeout carton sits atop of a pile of papers on his desk, a pair of chopsticks sticking up like antennae, propped in what Tova knows is vegetable fried rice from the one Chinese restaurant in the area, down in Elland. The same sort of carton that lured the octopus from his enclosure that night. \\\\u201cGood evening, Terry.\\\\u201d Tova inclines her head. \\\\u201cTake a load off,\\\\u201d he says, nodding at the chair across from his desk. He holds up a fortune cookie in a plastic wrapper. \\\\u201cYou want one? They always give me at least two, sometimes three or four. I don\\\\u2019t know how many people they think I could be feeding with this one pint of fried rice.\\\\u201d Tova smiles, but doesn\\\\u2019t sit, remaining in the doorway. \\\\u201cThat\\\\u2019s kind, but no thank you.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSuit yourself.\\\\u201d He shrugs, tossing it onto the clutter. The state of Terry\\\\u2019s desk, with its haphazard piles and scattered papers, always makes Tova\\\\u2019s palms itch. When she comes through later with her cleaning cart, she\\\\u2019ll empty the trash, dust the trio of frames behind the desk. Terry\\\\u2019s toddler daughter on a playground swing. Terry with his arm draped around an older woman\\\\u2019s shoulder\\\\u2014his mother, with deep brown skin, a crown of dark curls, and Terry\\\\u2019s same broad smile. An unseen breeze lifts the sleeve of Terry\\\\u2019s gown, a purple-and-gold tassel dangling from the his mortarboard cap. Next to the photo is the related degree: bachelor of science, summa cum laude, in marine biology, awarded to Terrance Bailey from the University of Washington. This sort of photo is missing from Tova\\\\u2019s mantel at home. Erik would\\\\u2019ve started at that university in the fall if that summer night had never happened. Terry picks up the chopsticks and scoops up a bite of rice in a smooth, expert manner that strikes her as impressively natural for a boy who, Tova knows, was raised on a fishing boat in Jamaica. Young people pick things up so easily. After chewing and swallowing, he says, \\\\u201cSorry to hear about your brother.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThank you,\\\\u201d Tova says quietly. Terry wipes his fingers on a thin takeout napkin. \\\\u201cEthan mentioned it.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s quite all right,\\\\u201d Tova says. It must be a challenge for Ethan, drumming up things to converse about while ringing groceries. Heaven knows she would detest such a job, having to chitchat all day long. \\\\u201cAnyway, I\\\\u2019m glad I caught you, Tova. I have a favor to ask.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYes?\\\\u201d Tova looks up, grateful for the speedy switch of topics. Finally, someone who doesn\\\\u2019t insist on nattering on for hours about her loss. \\\\u201cAny chance you could wipe down the front windows tonight? Just the inside.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cCertainly,\\\\u201d she replies, then adds, \\\\u201cI would be pleased to.\\\\u201d She means it. The broad windowpanes in the lobby are always collecting grime, and right now nothing would make her happier than to spray them down and work her cloth over the glass until every last smudge and streak is banished. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019d like the front to look nice for the crowds this weekend.\\\\u201d Terry runs a hand down his face, which looks exhausted. \\\\u201cIf you can\\\\u2019t get to all the floors, don\\\\u2019t worry about it, okay? We can catch up next week.\\\\u201d Fourth of July is always the aquarium\\\\u2019s busiest weekend. Back in Sowell Bay\\\\u2019s heyday, the town used to put on a big waterfront festival. These days, it\\\\u2019s just busier than average. Tova pulls on her rubber gloves. The pump rooms will get done, and the front windows as well. It will be a late night, but she has never minded staying up late. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re a lifesaver, Tova.\\\\u201d Terry flashes her a grateful grin. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s something to do.\\\\u201d She smiles back. Terry shuffles around the papers and mess on his desk, and something silver catches Tova\\\\u2019s eye. A heavy-looking clamp, its bar at least as thick as Terry\\\\u2019s index finger. He lifts it absently, then puts it back down again, like a paperweight. But Tova has the distinct feeling it\\\\u2019s not a paperweight. \\\\u201cMay I ask what that\\\\u2019s for?\\\\u201d Tova leans on the doorway, a sick feeling settling in her stomach. Terry lets out a sigh. \\\\u201cI think Marcellus has been going rogue again.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cMarcellus?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThe GPO.\\\\u201d It takes a moment for Tova to parse the acronym. Giant Pacific octopus. And he has a name. How did she not know? \\\\u201cI see,\\\\u201d Tova says quietly. \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t know how he does it. But I\\\\u2019m down eight sea cucumbers this month.\\\\u201d Terry picks up the clamp again and holds it in his cupped palm like he\\\\u2019s weighing it. \\\\u201cI think he\\\\u2019s slipping through that little gap. I need to pick up a piece of wood to go over the back of his tank before I can put this thing on.\\\\u201d Tova hesitates. Should she bring up the fried rice cartons in the break room? Her eyes fall to the clamp, which is now resting on top of the paperwork mess on Terry\\\\u2019s desk again. Finally, she says, \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t know how an octopus could leave a closed tank.\\\\u201d And this is true, technically. She does not know how he does it. \\\\u201cWell, something fishy is going on, pardon the pun.\\\\u201d Terry glances at his watch. \\\\u201cHey, I can probably make it to the hardware store tonight if I leave now.\\\\u201d He closes his laptop computer and begins to gather his things. \\\\u201cCareful on the wet floors, okay, Tova?\\\\u201d Terry is always reminding her to be careful. He\\\\u2019s anxious she\\\\u2019ll fall and break a hip and sue the pants off of the aquarium, or so the Knit-Wits say. Tova can\\\\u2019t imagine she would ever sue anyone, least of all this place, but she doesn\\\\u2019t bother correcting her friends anymore. And besides, she is always careful. Will used to joke that \\\\u201ccaution\\\\u201d ought to be her middle name. She replies, truthfully, \\\\u201cI always am.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHELLO, FRIEND,\\\\u201d SHE says to the octopus. At the sound of her voice, the octopus unfurls from behind a rock, a starburst of orange and yellow and white. He blinks at her as he drifts toward the glass. His color looks better tonight, Tova notes. Brighter. She smiles. \\\\u201cNot feeling so adventurous tonight, are you?\\\\u201d He sucks a tentacle to the glass, his bulbous mantle briefly heaving as if he\\\\u2019s letting out a sigh, even though that\\\\u2019s impossible. Then in a shockingly swift motion he jets toward the back of his tank, his eye still trained on her, and traces the edge of the tiny gap with the tip of a tentacle. \\\\u201cNo, you don\\\\u2019t, Mister. Terry\\\\u2019s on to you,\\\\u201d Tova scolds, and she scoots off toward the door that leads around back to the rear access for all of the tanks along this section of the outside wall. When she comes into the tiny, humid room, she expects to find the creature in the midst of escape, but to her surprise he\\\\u2019s still there in his tank. \\\\u201cThen again, perhaps you should have one last night of freedom,\\\\u201d she says, thinking of the heavy clamp on Terry\\\\u2019s desk. The octopus presses his face against the back glass and extends his arms upward, like a child\\\\u2019s plea to be carried. \\\\u201cYou want to shake hands,\\\\u201d she says, guessing. The octopus\\\\u2019s arms swirl in the water. \\\\u201cWell, I suppose so.\\\\u201d She drags over one of the chairs tucked under the long metal table and steadies herself as she climbs up, tall enough now to remove the cover on the back of the tank. As she\\\\u2019s unfastening the latch, she realizes the octopus might be taking advantage of her. Getting her to remove the lid so he can escape. She takes the gamble. Lifts the lid. He floats below, languid now, all eight arms spread out around him like an alien star. Then he lifts one out of the water. Tova extends her hand, still covered in faint round bruises from last time, and he winds around it again, as if smelling her. The tip of his tentacle reaches neck-high and pokes at her chin. Hesitantly, she touches the top of his mantle, as one might pet a dog. \\\\u201cHello, Marcellus. That\\\\u2019s what they call you, isn\\\\u2019t it?\\\\u201d Suddenly, with the arm still wrapped around hers, he gives a sharp tug. Tova\\\\u2019s balance falters on the chair and for a moment she fears he\\\\u2019s trying to pull her into his tank. She leans over until her nose nearly touches the water, her own eyes now inches from his, his otherworldly pupil so dark blue it\\\\u2019s almost black, an iridescent marble. They study each other for what seems like an eternity, and Tova realizes an additional octopus arm has wound its way over her other shoulder, prodding her freshly done hair. Tova laughs. \\\\u201cDon\\\\u2019t muss it. I was just at the beauty shop this morning.\\\\u201d Then he releases her and vanishes behind his rock. Stunned, Tova looks around. Had he heard something? She touches her neck, the cold wetness where his tentacle was. He reappears, drifting back upward. A small gray object is looped on the tip of one of his arms. He extends it to her. An offering. Her house key. The one she lost last year. \\\\n Day 1,319 of My Captivity I FOUND IT ON THE FLOOR NEAR THE PLACE WHERE she stores her things while she cleans. I should not have taken it, but I could not resist. There was something familiar about it. After returning to my tank, I stashed it in my den along with everything else. There is one place, a pocket in the deepest cranny of the hollowed rock, that even the most thorough tank cleaners cannot reach. It is here that I bury my treasures. What sort of treasures comprise my Collection, you ask? Well, where to begin? Three glass marbles, two plastic superheroes, one emerald solitaire ring. Four credit cards and a driver\\\\u2019s license. One jeweled barrette. One human tooth. Why that look of disgust? I did not remove it myself. The former owner wiggled it out on a school field trip then proceeded to lose track of it. What else? Earrings\\\\u2014many single earrings, never a pair. Three bracelets. Two devices for which I do not know the human word. I suppose they are . . . plugs? Humans stick them in the orifices of their youngest children to quiet them. My Collection has expanded considerably over the course of my captivity, and I have become choosier. In the early days, I had a great many coins, but these are commonplace now and I no longer pick them up unless they are different from the others. Foreign currency, as you humans call it. I have come across many keys over the years, naturally. Keys have come to be in the same category as coins. As a general rule, I pass them over. But, as I said, this particular key was oddly intriguing, and I knew I must take it, although I did not understand why it was special until later that night, as I ran the tip of my arm over its ridges. I had encountered this key before. Or, rather, one exactly like it. I suppose, in that way, keys are not like fingerprints at all. Keys can be copied. I held a copy of this one when I was very young. Before my capture. It was attached to a circular ring at the bottom of the sea, nestled within a trove of what could only be described as leftover human. Not bones and flesh, of course, as those never last long, but rather a rubber sneaker sole, a vinyl shoelace. Several plastic buttons, as from a shirt. Swept together under a clump of rocks and preserved there. It must belong to the one she mourns. Such are the secrets the sea holds. What I would not give to explore them again. If I could go back in time, I would collect all of it\\\\u2014the sneaker sole, the shoelace, the buttons, and the twin key. I would give it all to her. I am sorry for her loss. Returning this key is the least I can do. \\\\n Not a Movie Star, But Maybe a Pirate At nine in the morning, Cameron pulls on the front door of Dell\\\\u2019s Saloon, half expecting to find it locked. But the door swings wide open. He blinks, adjusting to the dim light. Old Al, the bartender, pokes his head out from the back. \\\\u201cCameron,\\\\u201d he says, sounding mildly surprised. His thick voice is like something out of a mob movie, so Italian and Brooklyn that it sounds almost comical here in central California. \\\\u201cHey, man.\\\\u201d Cameron slides onto one of the stools. In the back corner, covered right now in stacked liquor crates, is the tiny stage where Moth Sausage plays. Used to play, that is, before Brad went and blew up the band. An ancient radio sits on the rail next to the pool table, its crooked antenna aimed at the bar\\\\u2019s only grungy window. Talk radio blares, a man and a woman going at it, arguing about interest rates and the federal reserve or some other boring shit. \\\\u201cThe usual?\\\\u201d Old Al tosses a cocktail napkin down on the bar. \\\\u201cNah, that\\\\u2019s not why I\\\\u2019m here.\\\\u201d Cameron clears his throat. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ve got a proposal for you. A real estate proposal.\\\\u201d Old Al leans on the bar sink and folds his arms, lifting a brow. \\\\u201cThat apartment upstairs?\\\\u201d Cameron sits up straighter. \\\\u201cThe vacant one?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat about it?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI want to rent it. I\\\\u2019ve worked it all out. I\\\\u2019ll be able to get first month\\\\u2019s rent by next week, and\\\\u2014\\\\u201d Old Al holds up a hand. \\\\u201cStop, Cam. I ain\\\\u2019t interested.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBut you haven\\\\u2019t heard the rest!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI ain\\\\u2019t interested in becoming a landlord.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou don\\\\u2019t have to be a landlord! I\\\\u2019ll . . . lord myself. You won\\\\u2019t even know I\\\\u2019m there.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAin\\\\u2019t interested.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBut no one\\\\u2019s living there!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI like it that way.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHow much do you want for it?\\\\u201d Cameron pulls the black drawstring bag from the pocket of his hoodie and dumps the jewelry on the bar. \\\\u201cI can pay. See?\\\\u201d Old Al\\\\u2019s gaze lingers on the heap of tangled jewels for a moment, then he shakes his head as he picks up a gray rag from the sink. \\\\u201cWhat\\\\u2019d you do, rob an old folks\\\\u2019 home?\\\\u201d Cameron huffs. \\\\u201cI just need a place for a couple of months. Please?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSorry, kiddo.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cCome on, Al. You know I\\\\u2019m good for it.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cLet\\\\u2019s get real, Cameron. I could write the next great American novel on the back of your tab here. And you still haven\\\\u2019t paid me back for that table you broke last year when you pulled that little stunt. Hurling yourself from the stage.\\\\u201d Cameron winces. \\\\u201cThat was performance art.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt was vandalism, which I graciously forgave, because people seem to enjoy that noise you play, and because your aunt\\\\u2019s a good friend. But I\\\\u2019ve got my limits. Look, you can\\\\u2019t spit ten feet in this town without hitting a dumpy little apartment building. Why don\\\\u2019t you take your family jewels to one of them?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, because.\\\\u201d Cameron lets this stand on its own as an explanation, as if it should be obvious that the whole background-check-and-credit-history thing is a problem. \\\\u201cSuit yourself.\\\\u201d Old Al shrugs, swiping circles on the bar with his rag, pausing every so often to wring dusky water into the sink. He finally stops, tossing the rag back into the sink. \\\\u201cThat was your old lady\\\\u2019s stuff, huh?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYour aunt gave it to you?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYep.\\\\u201d The bartender picks up the gold tennis bracelet and holds it up. \\\\u201cSome of this ain\\\\u2019t half-bad.\\\\u201d Then he picks up the Sowell Bay High School, Class of 1989 ring and says, \\\\u201cHuh, look at that. No one buys these as graduation gifts anymore, do they?\\\\u201d Cameron shrugs. How would he know? He never graduated high school, a fact Old Al is surely aware of. \\\\u201cSowell Bay. That\\\\u2019s up in Washington, ain\\\\u2019t it?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI think so,\\\\u201d Cameron says. He knows so. He Googled it, of course. So what? That ring is some random thing his mom stole to pay for one of her bad habits, for all he knows. Maybe the guy in the photo was her accomplice. \\\\u201cYou know, I remember when Jeanne went up there to get her.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cGet who?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYour mother.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat are you talking about?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYour aunt never told you? \\\\u201cTold me what?\\\\u201d Cameron lets the wad of cocktail napkin he\\\\u2019d been balling between his thumb and fingers drop to the bar. Old Al sighs. \\\\u201cI never knew Daphne as anything other than Jeanne\\\\u2019s hell-raising little sister, mind you. Way I understand it, she ran away from home when she was in high school. Went up to Washington, who the hell knows why? Got in some sort of trouble up there. Jeanne had to call off work to go drag her sister home. I remember her in here one night, talking about it.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh\\\\u201d is all Cameron says. His brain feels weirdly numb. \\\\u201cAnyway.\\\\u201d Old Al holds the ring in his upturned palm and bobbles his hand like he\\\\u2019s weighing it. \\\\u201cA boyfriend\\\\u2019s, maybe. I gave mine to my sweetheart my senior year.\\\\u201d A slow smile spreads over the bartender\\\\u2019s face. \\\\u201cShe wore it on a chain around her neck, just long enough so it rested right in the sweet spot, right there in the crack of her rack.\\\\u201d Cameron cringes. \\\\u201cYeah, probably still there, for all I know. Never got it back from her after we broke up,\\\\u201d he says with a gruff grunt. The door creaks open, a triangle of dusty light cutting across the bar as two old guys come in. Cameron recognizes them from around town. The day crew. They nod to Cameron before settling a few stools down. Unbidden, Old Al caps two longnecks and slides them across the bar. He holds up a third bottle in Cameron\\\\u2019s direction. \\\\u201cWant one?\\\\u201d Then he adds, his voice slightly softer, \\\\u201cOn the house.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSure. Thanks.\\\\u201d Old Al gives him this guilty little nod, as if a two-dollar beer makes up for being a giant douchebag about not renting out his empty apartment. Then he sidles over to the radio and yanks the cord before coiling it neatly around his fist. A moment later, the jukebox in the corner lights up and the twanging guitar comes through the speakers. Apparently, the day crew likes country music, and Dell\\\\u2019s is officially open for business. Cameron swallows the entire ice-cold beer in one long pull, then wipes the ring from the bar top before slipping out the door. AS A GROUP, the class of 1989 at Sowell Bay High School has a surprisingly robust online presence, owing to the fact, he supposes, that their thirty-year reunion is coming up later this year. Thirty, just like him. His mother would\\\\u2019ve gotten pregnant that same summer that all these kids were graduating. A boyfriend\\\\u2019s ring. Which one of these assholes knocked his mom up? Someone has gone through the trouble to scan and upload a shit ton of pictures to this reunion page. The entire goddamn senior yearbook, it seems. Old people have too much time on their hands. Cameron scrolls through the grainy images, pausing occasionally when he spots feathered brown curls like his mother\\\\u2019s, but really, he\\\\u2019s looking for someone else. The guy with her in the wrinkled photo on the kitchen counter next to him He turns the ring over. To his surprise, there\\\\u2019s a faint engraving on the underside. EELS. The Sowell Bay High School . . . eels? Well, it\\\\u2019s a weird mascot, but it makes sense if they\\\\u2019re by the water. Weird that the yearbook pages don\\\\u2019t seem to have an eel theme, but what would that even look like? He continues to look through the scanned photos. Random pictures of kids and their basic high school antics, mugging for the camera with their big hair and cheesy \\\\u201980s clothes. Something catches his eye: a photo of his mom he\\\\u2019s never seen before, standing on a crowded pier with that same guy\\\\u2019s arm slung around her. The guy\\\\u2019s head is turned sideways; his face is buried in her windblown hair, like he\\\\u2019s kissing her on the cheek, but it\\\\u2019s him, sure as shit. Fingers suddenly clammy, he zooms in. There\\\\u2019s a caption. Daphne Cassmore and Simon Brinks. \\\\u201cBingo. Simon Brinks.\\\\u201d His own gravel whisper seems to drag through his vocal cords. Quickly, he opens a new window and types in the name. Page after page of search results paint a clear picture: a renowned Seattle real estate developer and nightclub owner. A feature on his vacation home in the Seattle Times. A photo spread with his goddamn Ferrari. This guy is a big deal. A big, fat, extremely rich deal. Cameron lets out a short laugh and pumps his fist. Simon Brinks. Cameron wanders into the living room, sinks into Brad and Elizabeth\\\\u2019s pristine couch, and studies the picture that was wrapped around the ring. Could that really be his father? It\\\\u2019s just a photo, but it\\\\u2019s more than he\\\\u2019s ever had to go on. He studies his mother\\\\u2019s image, her carefree grin, her windswept hair. She\\\\u2019s tall and thin, of course, almost taller than Brinks, who himself looks like a decent-sized guy. But the thing he can\\\\u2019t stop looking at is her cheeks, which are plump and healthy, almost chubby like a baby\\\\u2019s. It\\\\u2019s not the Daphne Cassmore of his memories, who he can\\\\u2019t recall as anything other than bony and sunken. He studies the background of the photo: a huge planter overflowing with flowers. Daffodils and tulips. It\\\\u2019s April, then. Possibly March, possibly May, but with those things blooming, the odds are very high that the photo was taken in April. Cameron was born February 2. He runs the math. Could he be in this picture, too? Gestationally, it adds up. \\\\u201cHey,\\\\u201d Elizabeth calls from the hallway. \\\\u201cHow\\\\u2019d it go at Dell\\\\u2019s?\\\\u201d Cameron stands and follows her into the kitchen, recounting his failure to convince Old Al to rent him the apartment and his discovery of Simon Brinks and his Ferrari. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re sure he\\\\u2019s your father?\\\\u201d Elizabeth starts to dice a red pepper. Fajitas on the menu. She\\\\u2019s annihilating the pile of little red bits, not even bothering to watch the blade, alarmingly close to her fingertips each time it slashes down. Cameron would kill for such confidence. \\\\u201cWho else could it be?\\\\u201d Cameron holds up the photo. \\\\u201cLook at this picture and tell me these two weren\\\\u2019t banging.\\\\u201d Elizabeth raises an eyebrow. \\\\u201cWell, lots of people are banging. That doesn\\\\u2019t prove anything.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBut the timing. It\\\\u2019s exactly right.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cDoes he look like you, though?\\\\u201d Cameron tilts his head at the picture. \\\\u201cHard to tell with that eighties haircut.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cDidn\\\\u2019t you just spend the afternoon stalking him online?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah, but now he just looks like some middle-aged guy. Like a dad.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBecause all dads look the same.\\\\u201d Elizabeth rolls her eyes. \\\\u201cHere\\\\u2019s the thing, though. Does it matter? I mean, if he believes he\\\\u2019s my dad . . .\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou can\\\\u2019t just shake down some random person because he was in a picture with your mom.\\\\u201d Elizabeth dumps the peppers into a skillet, where they release a puff of sizzling steam. \\\\u201cBesides, don\\\\u2019t you want to know if this guy\\\\u2019s the real deal? Don\\\\u2019t you want a relationship, too?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cRelationships are overrated.\\\\u201d He pops a left-behind pepper from the cutting board into his mouth. It\\\\u2019s surprisingly sweet. \\\\u201cSo you\\\\u2019re going to . . . what, exactly? Go up to Washington and find him?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHell yeah. Why shouldn\\\\u2019t I?\\\\u201d Cameron hopes she takes this as rhetorical, because there are a million reasons why he shouldn\\\\u2019t. For one thing, how\\\\u2019s he going to get there? He doesn\\\\u2019t see Brad offering to loan out his truck for a thousand-mile road trip. \\\\u201cWell, that\\\\u2019ll be an adventure.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah, it will.\\\\u201d Elizabeth leans into the fridge over her belly and pulls out a package of ground turkey, which she tears open and dumps into the skillet. \\\\u201cIf I weren\\\\u2019t incubating this alien spawn, Brad and I would totally go with you.\\\\u201d She stirs the pan, causing the meat to hiss. \\\\u201cRemember when we were really little, we\\\\u2019d make up stories about finding your dad? I mean, to be fair we thought he would be, like, a pirate or a movie star or something. God, we were ridiculous!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSimon Brinks is definitely not a movie star, but he might be a pirate. I don\\\\u2019t care either way. He can stay a mystery as long as he agrees to pay up for eighteen years of missed child support.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, if all else fails, I\\\\u2019ve heard Seattle is really pretty.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah, sure,\\\\u201d Cameron says with a nod. Pretty. Lots of trees. Who cares? Western Washington is the wettest place in America, and Simon Brinks is about to make it rain cash money. Elizabeth grabs a pitcher of lemonade from the fridge and pours two glasses, sliding one across the counter to him before raising the other. \\\\u201cWell, Camel-tron. Here\\\\u2019s to unsolved mysteries.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cTo unsolved mysteries.\\\\u201d He clinks her glass. IN THE WEE hours of his last night in California, Cameron lies awake yet again, bathed in his phone screen\\\\u2019s cold light. Two clicks to download some travel app he saw a commercial about, with some schtick about guaranteeing rock-bottom prices. But it works. The JoyJet flight to Seattle leaves Sacramento International at five a.m., which is in three hours. He\\\\u2019ll make it if he leaves . . . well, now. Hastily, he empties out his green duffel and sifts through the contents, then tosses in every pair of boxers he owns, along with the rest of his clothes and the little bag of jewelry. Once his bag is packed, he returns to his phone screen. Crossing his fingers his credit card clears the transaction, he clicks the button to book it. Simon Brinks, if he really is Cameron\\\\u2019s father, is going to pay for every precious second of fatherhood he\\\\u2019s missed over the last thirty years. \\\\n The Technically True Story A baking-soda scrub takes most of the rust off the key. To Tova\\\\u2019s surprise, in spite of what it must have been through, it fits smoothly in her front door. She restores the original to its rightful place on her keyring, then unthreads the spare, which never did overcome the fact that it hitched in the lock on occasion. She tosses the spare in the kitchen junk drawer. She\\\\u2019s only just returned to her morning coffee and crossword when a soft scraping on the front porch interrupts her. Her lumbar region pops as she rises from the kitchen chair, and with one palm bracing the small of her back, she shuffles toward the door, arriving in time to watch Cat shimmy through a loose flap in the screen door. When did that flap come loose? Another minor repair needed. They accumulate so quickly now that Will\\\\u2019s gone. It might be fixable with superglue. She could go to the hardware store for superglue. It would be the same hardware store where Terry had gone to get a bit of wood to make that clamp work. The same clamp that had landed with a heavy thump in the trash collection bin when she\\\\u2019d thrown it away. Cat sits down in the center of her foyer, tail wrapped neatly around the base of his slender body, and blinks at her, as if asking her what she is doing here, rather than the other way around. What is it with creatures and small gaps lately? \\\\u201cWell, come along. We eat breakfast in the kitchen. I\\\\u2019m afraid porch service has been discontinued.\\\\u201d AT THE AQUARIUM that evening, her footsteps echo in the empty foyer. She begins her usual preparations. \\\\u201cHello, dears,\\\\u201d she says to the angelfish on her way to the supply closet, then gives an efficient greeting to the bluegills, the Japanese crabs, the sharp-nosed sculpin, the ghastly wolf eels. She mixes the lemon and vinegar and props the mop and bucket in the hallway. It will be ready for her when she returns. As usual, Marcellus is tucked behind his rock. She ducks through the door to the pump room, immediately relieved to see no clamps on his tank. A wave of guilt washes over her. Does Terry assume he misplaced it? The image of Cat where she\\\\u2019d left him on her way out, curled up on her davenport, flashes through her mind. Without really intending it, she arrived at a decision not to repair the screen, at least for now. Let the creatures have their gaps, then. She laughs aloud. The pumps gurgle their agreement. She pulls out an old step stool and carefully climbs, then slides off the cover over the back rim of the tank. Looking down at a bird\\\\u2019s-eye view, she sets her jaw through a wave of dizziness brought on by the mechanical rippling of the water below. Then she pushes up the sleeve of her sweater and hovers a finger over the surface, wondering if her arm would be long enough to reach if she tried to poke him in his hiding spot. Not that she would ever try. Hiding spots ought to be sacred. But she needn\\\\u2019t have considered such drastic measures, because he floats out and drifts upward, his eye trained on her. One of his arms wafts back and forth, and Tova imagines he is waving. She lets her hand drop in, and her breath catches, either from the cold water or the absurdity of what she is doing or perhaps both. Almost instantly, the octopus reciprocates, winding two of its tentacles around her wrist and forearm in his particular way that makes her hand feel heavy and peculiar. \\\\u201cGood evening, Marcellus,\\\\u201d she says formally. \\\\u201cHow has your day been?\\\\u201d The octopus tightens his grip, but in a genteel manner Tova interprets as a pleasantry. The equivalent of Very well, thanks for asking. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019ve been staying out of trouble, then,\\\\u201d Tova says with an affirming nod. His color is good. No more dustups with the pile of cords in the break room. \\\\u201cGood boy,\\\\u201d she adds, then immediately regrets it. Good boy is what Mary Ann says to Rolo when he sits for a biscuit. If Marcellus takes offense, he doesn\\\\u2019t show it. The tip of his arm attaches to the crook of Tova\\\\u2019s elbow, then reaches around the other side and taps the knob of her funny bone, as if trying to understand the mechanics of the joint. How strange her anatomy must seem to him, all sockets and brittle bones. He pokes at the flap of skin sagging from her tricep, pulled by gravity\\\\u2019s hand, which grows more insistent each year. \\\\u201cSkin and bones. That\\\\u2019s what the Knit-Wits say, when they think I\\\\u2019m out of earshot.\\\\u201d She shakes her head. \\\\u201cWe\\\\u2019ve been friends for decades, you see. Used to meet for lunch every Tuesday, but now it\\\\u2019s every other. When Will was alive, he\\\\u2019d chuckle at me as I went out the door. \\\\u2018Don\\\\u2019t know how you stand that old pack of hens,\\\\u2019 he\\\\u2019d say.\\\\u201d The octopus blinks. \\\\u201cThey can be a terribly gossipy bunch. But they\\\\u2019re my friends . . .\\\\u201d Tova trails off, allowing her words to be swallowed by the hums and gurgles of the pumps. How strange her voice sounds in here, muted by the muggy air. Oh, what the Knit-Wits would say if they could see her now. The old pack of hens would have a field day with this. Tova wouldn\\\\u2019t blame them. What is she doing here, telling her life story to this strange creature? Still gripping her wrist firmly, the octopus traces the birthmark on her forearm, the one Tova used to hate when she was young and vain. Back then, it sat like an outcast on her smooth, pale skin, three outrageous splotches, each the size of a kidney bean. Now, the birthmark is barely noticeable among the wrinkles and liver spots. It seems to be of great interest to the octopus, though, as he prods it again. \\\\u201cErik used to call it my Mickey Mouse mole.\\\\u201d Tova can\\\\u2019t help but smile. \\\\u201cHe was jealous, I think. He said he wanted one, too. One time, when he was about five, he got ahold of a permanent marker and drew one on his arm, just like mine.\\\\u201d She lowers her voice. \\\\u201cMind you, he also decorated the davenport with that pen. The marks never did come out.\\\\u201d The octopus blinks again. \\\\u201cOh, how upset I was at the time! But I\\\\u2019ll tell you what, when Will and I finally got rid of that davenport, years and years later . . .\\\\u201d Tova just nods, as if the sentence ought to have the decency to finish itself. And she doesn\\\\u2019t add that she hid in the bathroom as the furniture men made their way down the gravel driveway. Every piece of Erik was a fresh loss, even his ill-gotten artwork. \\\\u201cHe died when he was eighteen. Here, actually. Well, out there.\\\\u201d She tilts her head at the far end of the room, toward the tiny window overlooking Puget Sound, now darkened by night. Has Marcellus ever hoisted himself up there and peered out? Would the sight of the sea be a comfort to him? Or would it be a slap in the face, seeing his natural habitat, so close, yet so far? It reminds Tova of when her old neighbor Mrs. Sorenson would sometimes put her cage of parakeets on her porch when the weather was pleasant. They liked to listen to the wild birds sing, Mrs. Sorenson explained. It always made Tova feel oddly sad. But Marcellus doesn\\\\u2019t follow her gaze to the dark little window. Maybe he doesn\\\\u2019t even know it exists. His eye is still fixed on Tova. She continues. \\\\u201cHe drowned one night. Out on a little boat. All by himself.\\\\u201d She shifts on the stool, chasing the ache away from her bad hip. \\\\u201cIt took weeks of searching, but they finally found the anchor. Its line was cut.\\\\u201d She swallows. \\\\u201cThey continued to look for the body, but Erik was already picked apart by then, I\\\\u2019m sure. Nothing lasts long at the bottom of the ocean.\\\\u201d The octopus averts his eye for a moment, as if accepting some measure of culpability for his brethren, for their position in the food chain. \\\\u201cThey said he must have done it himself. No other explanation.\\\\u201d Tova draws in a ragged breath. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s always been so peculiar, though. Erik was happy. Well, he was eighteen, so who knows what was going on in his brain? And yes, we had that argument . . . oh, it was silly. He and his friends were kicking a soccer ball in the house and they knocked over one of my Dala Horses. My favorite one. It was old, brittle . . . My mother brought it over from Sweden . . . Its leg broke off.\\\\u201d She straightens on the stool. \\\\u201cIn any case, he was also upset with me for forcing him to take that job working the ticket booth. But what was I to do, let a teenager loaf around all summer?\\\\u201d The loafing was a trait Erik had inherited from Will. The two of them would lounge for hours in the den, watching football or baseball or whatever sort of ball was in season. Afterward, Tova would come through with the vacuum and suck up the potato chip crumbs from the seams of the davenport and take a rag to the water stains their sweating soda cans left behind on the coffee table. Even after Erik was gone, Will would do the same thing every time there was a game on: sit on his same cushion while Erik\\\\u2019s sat empty. Loafing as usual, as if nothing had changed. It always irritated Tova. Keeping busy was much healthier. \\\\u201cAny reasonable parent would have insisted their child get a summer job,\\\\u201d she continues with a tiny tremor in her voice. \\\\u201cOf course, if I\\\\u2019d have known what would happen . . .\\\\u201d Without thinking much about it, she reaches her free hand into her apron pocket, finds her rag, and begins to scrub at the crusty white calcifications lining the black rubberized rim of the tank. Stubborn, but eventually the gunk relents. The octopus maintains his grip on her other arm, although his eye shimmers in a quizzical manner that Tova interprets as: What on earth are you doing, lady? She chuckles softly. \\\\u201cI can\\\\u2019t help myself, can I?\\\\u201d On the far side of the tank, the grimy rim is just out of reach. She shifts her weight, stretching her arm, then suddenly the stool starts to wobble beneath her feet. In a flash, the octopus\\\\u2019s tentacles slip through her fingertips. She lands in a painful crumple on the hard tile. \\\\u201cGoodness gracious!\\\\u201d she mutters, taking mental inventory of her various parts. Her left ankle feels tender, but when she stands, it bears weight. She plucks up her rag from where it landed beneath the tank. The octopus peers from behind his rock, where he must\\\\u2019ve retreated with all of the clatter. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m fine,\\\\u201d she says with a relieved sigh. Everything intact. Except for the step stool. It lies on its side, jammed against a pile of clutter next to the tank pump. It must\\\\u2019ve shot out from underneath her when she moved. Now its upper rung dangles, one end detached. \\\\u201cOh, for heaven\\\\u2019s sake,\\\\u201d she grumbles, limping across the room to retrieve it. She tries to jam the rung back into place, but it\\\\u2019s missing some doohickey. She scans the tile for a screwlike object, squinting in the pale blue light, then retrieves her glasses from her apron pocket and looks again. Nothing. She tries again, more urgently this time, to fit the rung back on, but it\\\\u2019s no use. How will she explain this to Terry? She is not supposed to be climbing on stools, and certainly not pump room stools. For a fleeting moment she considers disposing of the evidence. Pitching the broken stool into the dumpster along with the night\\\\u2019s trash. Or better yet, removing it from the scene of the crime altogether. Taking it home with her and setting it out on her curb on trash day. But what if Terry were to drive by her house and see it there? Her heart hammers at the thought. \\\\u201cNo, I can\\\\u2019t do that,\\\\u201d she says firmly. And she can\\\\u2019t. Tova Sullivan is no liar. She\\\\u2019ll have to tell him. Perhaps Terry will relieve her of her duties. At her age, he\\\\u2019ll conclude, the risk is too great. She won\\\\u2019t blame him. Something sloshes behind her, and when she turns, the octopus is already partway out of his tank. Tova freezes, rapt. \\\\u201cTerry was right,\\\\u201d she whispers, watching the creature flatten one of his thick arms and, in a way that seems to defy the laws of physics, squeeze it through the narrow gap between pump and the lid. It should be impossible. The gap can\\\\u2019t be wider than a couple inches. When he somehow morphs his enormous mantle, easily as large as a late-August watermelon, into seemingly liquid goo and works that through as well, Tova realizes she\\\\u2019s actually holding her breath in anticipation. She exhales as he slides down the wall, then slinks across the tile and slips under one of the cabinets against the wall, vanishing completely. When he doesn\\\\u2019t promptly reappear, Tova wonders whether he intends to return. Perhaps he\\\\u2019s escaping for good. She swallows, surprised at the sting she feels at the thought. Like he ought to have at least said goodbye. \\\\u201cOh, there you are,\\\\u201d she says as he emerges from under the cabinet a moment later. Looking her directly in the eye, he slides over and, with one of his curled arms, deposits a small silver object at the toe of her sneaker. Tova gapes. A screw. The missing doohickey. \\\\u201cThank you,\\\\u201d she says, but by then he\\\\u2019s already slipping back into his tank. THE NEXT MORNING, when Tova wakes and steps into her slippers, she crumples to the ground again. \\\\u201cWhat on earth?\\\\u201d She blinks. Her left ankle. Only when she sees the blush of purple spread over her foot does she realize it\\\\u2019s throbbing painfully. On her second attempt to stand, she\\\\u2019s ready. Wincing, she shuffles down the hallway to the kitchen and puts on coffee. She lasts until lunchtime before even considering a phone call to Dr. Remy. By late afternoon, she\\\\u2019s convinced herself to retrieve the booklet of phone numbers she keeps stashed in the console in the den. She sits in Will\\\\u2019s old spot on the davenport, her leg propped on the coffee table with a sack of frozen peas balanced on her ankle, and flips through the pages. Then she sets the book down next to her on the cushion and turns on the television. It\\\\u2019s nearly five when she finally places the call. Dr. Remy\\\\u2019s office closes at five. \\\\u201cSnohomish Medical Associates.\\\\u201d The voice is tinged with annoyance. Tova pictures Gretchen, the receptionist, leaning over the desk, phone receiver cradled under her ear as she juggles the jacket and pocketbook she\\\\u2019s already gathered. Perhaps she ought not to have called. But her ankle has swollen to the size and color of a plum, and as much as she dislikes admitting it, she might need medical attention. She gives her name and date of birth, and briefly explains her predicament, omitting the part about the incident having occurred at work. And she definitely doesn\\\\u2019t mention it happened while talking to a giant Pacific octopus. She simply says she fell from a stool while cleaning, which is technically true. \\\\u201cMrs. Sullivan, how awful.\\\\u201d Gretchen\\\\u2019s tone softens. \\\\u201cHang on, let me see if I can catch Dr. Remy.\\\\u201d The line clicks over to staticky music, some soft-jazzy number that Tova supposes is meant to be soothing. When the receptionist returns, her voice is more clinical. \\\\u201cThe doc says as long as the pain is manageable for now, he\\\\u2019ll see you first thing tomorrow morning. I\\\\u2019m booking you an appointment for eight o\\\\u2019clock. He says to keep it elevated. And stay off of it.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cCertainly,\\\\u201d Tova says. \\\\u201cMrs. Sullivan, this means no mopping at the aquarium tonight.\\\\u201d Tova opens her mouth to protest, then snaps it shut. What business is her employment to Gretchen? First Ethan lecturing her while ringing her groceries and now this. Does anyone in Sowell Bay know how to mind their business? \\\\u201cOf course not,\\\\u201d she finally answers. \\\\u201cGreat. See you in the morning.\\\\u201d Tova hangs up, then dials another number. She drums her fingers on the davenport cushion as she waits for Terry to pick up. Has he noticed the damaged stool in his pump room yet? She\\\\u2019d gotten the screw back in, but apparently it needed some other sort of doohickey to tighten it all the way, so the top rung was still crooked. She thought she might bring Will\\\\u2019s old bag of tools tonight so she could repair it fully. Now, who knows when that will happen? And then there\\\\u2019s the matter of the floors. Who will mop them tonight? Anyone? Will Marcellus wonder at her absence? He understood the importance of fetching that screw, after all. This fact still marvels Tova. \\\\u201cTova?\\\\u201d Terry answers. \\\\u201cWhat\\\\u2019s up?\\\\u201d With a grave sigh, she relays the same technically true story to Terry that she told to Gretchen. It\\\\u2019s the first time in her life she\\\\u2019s called out of work. \\\\n Got Baggage? Cameron scans the conveyer, looking for his green duffel. It should be easy to spot among the gray and black suitcases, but after a couple of minutes he takes a seat on a nearby bench. Figures his would be the last one out. With one eye on the carousel, he grabs his phone and reviews the list of hostels. There\\\\u2019s one a few miles from Sowell Bay. And that\\\\u2019s where he\\\\u2019ll start his search, of course. According to the sleuthing of county property records he did while waiting to board, Simon Brinks owns three properties in the area. He zooms in on a photo of one of the hostel\\\\u2019s rooms. It\\\\u2019s not exactly a brand-new apartment with fluffy carpet and a flat-screen, not even a shitty apartment above a bar, but it looks reasonably clean, and it\\\\u2019s cheap enough that he should be able to stay there for a few weeks on the cash he\\\\u2019ll get from pawning the jewelry. Speaking of which, where is his bag? The class ring is in his pocket, but the rest of the jewelry is tucked in his duffel. The conveyer is still spitting out suitcases but sporadically now. He pictures the workers in their orange vests piling the last of the luggage from the plane\\\\u2019s hold onto one of those carts to be driven across the tarmac. What a terrible system. A million inefficiencies, too many handling points. A zillion opportunities for shit to go sideways. \\\\u201cFigures, right?\\\\u201d A guy about his age wearing rimless glasses plops down the other end of the bench and unwraps a sub sandwich, jamming one end in his mouth, which he doesn\\\\u2019t bother to close as he chews. The steady release of spiced pastrami turns Cameron\\\\u2019s stomach. Who eats pastrami at eight in the morning? \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m sure they\\\\u2019ll come out,\\\\u201d Cameron says. \\\\u201cNot a frequent JoyJet flier, are you?\\\\u201d Spiced Pastrami barks out a laugh. Pickles and lettuce tumble around in his mouth. \\\\u201cTrust me, they\\\\u2019re notorious for it. We\\\\u2019ve got better odds in Vegas than of our suitcases coming down that belt right now.\\\\u201d Cameron inhales, preparing to explain that a top-tier equity firm just bought in at a multibillion-dollar valuation for JoyJet and investors are giddy at rumors of an IPO, and even when you\\\\u2019re an ultra-budget airline you don\\\\u2019t get there by habitually losing customer property. But then the carousel grinds to a halt. \\\\u201cShit,\\\\u201d Cameron mutters. That bag of jewelry. Why hadn\\\\u2019t he kept it on him? Now it\\\\u2019s somewhere between Sacramento and Seattle, or, more likely, shoved away in some baggage worker\\\\u2019s locker. He drops his head into his hands and groans. \\\\u201cSee? I called it,\\\\u201d Spiced Pastrami says with a nod at the conveyer, which is still as a dead snake. \\\\u201cWell, let\\\\u2019s go file claims.\\\\u201d Cameron eyes the line forming outside of a tiny office on the far side of the baggage area. Of course, the fine print on the back of the baggage ticket states that they won\\\\u2019t pay for valuables in checked luggage. He\\\\u2019d skimmed it as they hauled off his duffel after the agent insisted it wouldn\\\\u2019t fit in the overhead bin. But he\\\\u2019d shrugged off any possibility these disclaimers could apply to him. They\\\\u2019re meant for other people. Cameron Cassmore doesn\\\\u2019t have valuables. By the time he gets to the baggage office, the line is twenty people deep. Spiced Pastrami leans on the wall beside him, still gnawing on his sandwich. It just keeps coming. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m Elliot, by the way.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNice to meet you.\\\\u201d Cameron tries to look like he\\\\u2019s concentrating hard on his phone, as if there\\\\u2019s some Very Important Business happening there. \\\\u201cWell, we didn\\\\u2019t meet, technically. I told you my name, but you didn\\\\u2019t tell me yours.\\\\u201d Doesn\\\\u2019t this guy have anything better to do? \\\\u201cCameron.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cCameron. Nice to meet you.\\\\u201d He holds up his insufferable sandwich. \\\\u201cHungry? Happy to share.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNo thanks. Not really a pastrami fan.\\\\u201d Elliot\\\\u2019s eyes widen. \\\\u201cOh, this isn\\\\u2019t pastrami! It\\\\u2019s a Yamwich.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cA what? \\\\u201cA Yamwich! You know, vegan? From that one place on Capitol Hill? They opened a kiosk here at the airport last year.\\\\u201d Cameron stares at the oily hoagie, loaded with thinly shaved slices of . . . something. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re telling me that\\\\u2019s made from yam?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYep! Their reuben kicks ass. You sure you don\\\\u2019t want some?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cPass.\\\\u201d Cameron suppresses a scoff. Seattle hipsters, living up to their stereotype. \\\\u201cAre you sure? I\\\\u2019ve got a whole \\\\u2019nother half here, haven\\\\u2019t touched it . . .\\\\u201d \\\\u201cFine,\\\\u201d Cameron agrees, mostly to end the conversation, but also to appease the nagging voice in the back of his brain reminding him he\\\\u2019s in no position to turn down free meals. Elliot grins. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019ll love it.\\\\u201d As Cameron bites into the sandwich, he returns to scrolling his phone. Katie has posted a selfie with her dog. Hashtag SingleDogLady. He scowls, but it\\\\u2019s softened by the pleasant crunch happening in his mouth. Yam? Really? It\\\\u2019s actually . . . not bad. He nods at Elliot. \\\\u201cThanks, bro. This is decent.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWait until you try their French dip.\\\\u201d The line moves at a creep. Finally, Elliot wads up the greasy wrapper and tosses it at a nearby trash can, landing the shot without even hitting the rim, which annoys Cameron more than it should. Elliot turns to him. \\\\u201cSo, seems like you\\\\u2019re not from around here? Here for work? Vacation?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cFamily visit.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh, nice. Me, I\\\\u2019m coming home. Was down in Cali for my grandmother\\\\u2019s funeral.\\\\u201d A dead grandma. Figures. Cameron mutters, \\\\u201cSorry for your loss.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cTo tell the truth, she was kind of mean, but she loved us grandkids,\\\\u201d Elliot says, his voice surprisingly soft. \\\\u201cSpoiled us rotten in only the way a grandparent can, you know?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah, for sure,\\\\u201d Cameron says, tossing his own wrapper into the trash. Of course, he never had a grandparent of his own. Elizabeth\\\\u2019s grandfather used to pinch his cheeks and give him caramel candies when he happened to drop by Elizabeth\\\\u2019s house while Cameron was over. The candies were too sticky, too sweet, and the pinching kind of hurt, and he always smelled like weird old man, like stale pee mixed with arthritis cream. Elizabeth said the old folks\\\\u2019 home where he lived was practically a morgue. \\\\u201cAnyway, I guess she\\\\u2019s at peace now.\\\\u201d A sad smile spreads over Elliot\\\\u2019s face. Cameron drops his gaze, feeling yet again like an intruder spying on the typical human experience, an outsider looking in on the normal, which is always just out of his grasp. Losing grandparents, worrying about valuables in your suitcase: these experiences belong to other people. Elliot pulls off his glasses and wipes them on his shirt as they shuffle forward in the queue. \\\\u201cYour family must be excited to see you! Are they in Seattle?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNo, Sowell Bay. My dad.\\\\u201d The word feels dry and sticky on Cameron\\\\u2019s tongue, like one of those old-man candies. \\\\u201cAwesome. Bonding time with the old man, huh?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSomething like that.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSowell Bay\\\\u2019s nice. Really pretty up there.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSo I\\\\u2019ve heard.\\\\u201d Elliot\\\\u2019s head tilts. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019ve never been?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNo. I mean, my dad just moved there recently, so.\\\\u201d Cameron allows himself a tiny smile, surprised at how easily this lie slips out. \\\\u201cRight on,\\\\u201d Elliot says. \\\\u201cSowell Bay. Used to be super touristy, but now it\\\\u2019s kind of run-down. There\\\\u2019s an aquarium that\\\\u2019s still open, I think. You should check it out.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSure, thanks,\\\\u201d says Cameron, though obviously he has no plans to waste time looking at fish when he needs to track down Simon Brinks. The line creeps forward. The JoyJet baggage office must be run by a team of sloths and snails. He turns to Elliot. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019ve gone through this before, huh? How long are we gonna be waiting here?\\\\u201d Elliot shrugs. \\\\u201cOh, they\\\\u2019re usually pretty quick. Two, three hours, maybe?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThree hours? You\\\\u2019ve gotta be kidding me.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, you get what you pay for, right?\\\\u201d AUNT JEANNE ANSWERS on the third ring. \\\\u201cHello?\\\\u201d she huffs into the phone, out of breath. \\\\u201cAre you okay?\\\\u201d Cameron plugs a finger in his other ear to block out the loud babbling of a tour group, which has for some reason decided they need to congregate three inches away from him in this far corner of the baggage area. \\\\u201cCammy? Is that you?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah.\\\\u201d He nudges away from the tourists. \\\\u201cWhat are you doing? Why are you breathing so hard?\\\\u201d An unwelcome image of Wally Perkins smacks into Cameron\\\\u2019s brain. He shudders, ready to hang up the phone. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m clearing out the second bedroom,\\\\u201d his aunt answers. \\\\u201cThat\\\\u2019s a project.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, I figured you might need a place to stay.\\\\u201d A long pause. \\\\u201cI heard about you and Katie.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWord travels fast.\\\\u201d Cameron bites a nail. He and Aunt Jeanne need to have a major conversation about why she never told him that his mom lived in a goddamn different state when he was conceived. Here in baggage claim isn\\\\u2019t an ideal setting for that, and now she\\\\u2019s putting herself out for him . . . well, he\\\\u2019ll have to tell her where he is, at least. No choice. \\\\u201cAunt Jeanne, I could never stay . . .\\\\u201d He cuts himself off before the thought can finish itself. Could never stay in that tiny trailer full of junk. Through all of his screwups, this is one thing he\\\\u2019s always managed to avoid. If only that were the only thing he needed. On the other end of the line, a trickling sound followed by a tiny steaming sizzle tells him Aunt Jeanne is pouring coffee, then sliding the pot back onto its hot plate. \\\\u201cI know, I know. You could never live here with me,\\\\u201d she says. \\\\u201cBut, Cammy, you don\\\\u2019t exactly have another plan.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI do, actually!\\\\u201d For a moment, Cameron considers telling her the whole master plan. But not here, at the airport. \\\\u201cI do have a plan. But the thing is . . .\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat is it?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI need help. A very small amount of help,\\\\u201d Cameron says, grimacing. Aunt Jeanne\\\\u2019s sigh stretches all the way up the West Coast. \\\\u201cWhat happened now?\\\\u201d Where to even start? It\\\\u2019s a new low, running away like this, then calling home to beg for money. He\\\\u2019s no better than his loser mother. But what choice does he have? From across the corridor, Elliot emerges from the baggage office, then strides toward him, waving cheerily with one hand and dragging a gray suitcase with the other. Lucky asshole. \\\\u201cCammy, what happened?\\\\u201d Aunt Jeanne presses. From a speaker on the low ceiling, a woman\\\\u2019s recorded voice bleats an announcement about attending luggage and personal belongings at all times. How obnoxiously ironic. He hauls in a breath, then explains, as succinctly as he can, his discovery of the ring and photo, the impromptu plane ticket, the hostel plan. After a loaded silence, Aunt Jeanne says softly, \\\\u201cOh, Cammy. I should\\\\u2019ve told you.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s okay. But here\\\\u2019s the cherry on the shit sundae,\\\\u201d he says, borrowing one of her pet metaphors. \\\\u201cThe airline lost my bag.\\\\u201d The announcement voice blares over him again. \\\\u201cWill you speak up? I can\\\\u2019t hear you!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThey lost my bag!\\\\u201d He doesn\\\\u2019t mean to shout it so loud. Several of the tourists pop their heads up at him, and the group edges away, scandalized. Aunt Jeanne clicks her tongue. \\\\u201cSo what? You need socks and underwear?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cMore than that. I have, like, four dollars total.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat happened to the jewelry I gave you? I thought for sure you\\\\u2019d have pawned that by now.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThe jewelry was in the bag.\\\\u201d The line is quiet for several long moments, and then Aunt Jeanne sighs again. \\\\u201cFor someone so smart, you\\\\u2019re a real bonehead sometimes.\\\\u201d ELLIOT STILL SMELLS faintly of pepper and mustard, and he trails Cameron across the skybridge toward the parking lot asking endless questions, undeterred by Cameron\\\\u2019s one-word answers. Did JoyJet really have no idea where his bag ended up? Nope. Where was he gonna go, then? Somewhere. How was he gonna get there? Bus. Thankfully, Elliot didn\\\\u2019t broach the subject of how Cameron was going to pay for any of this, because he didn\\\\u2019t have a good way to distill the two-thousand-dollar loan from his aunt into a single word. Aunt Jeanne had insisted it wasn\\\\u2019t really a loan, and Cameron took this to mean that he couldn\\\\u2019t be counted on to pay it back. Ouch. But JoyJet can\\\\u2019t keep his duffel in limbo forever. He\\\\u2019ll pawn the bling and send the money right back to Aunt Jeanne\\\\u2019s savings account, well in advance of the deadline for her cruise deposit. She hadn\\\\u2019t said so, explicitly, but Cameron knew that\\\\u2019s where the money had come from. Aunt Jeanne has been saving up for an Alaskan cruise, her dream vacation, for years. The final payment is due in late August, sailing in September. Cameron will sell his organs to pay her back before he\\\\u2019ll let it be his fault she can\\\\u2019t go. \\\\u201cYou need a ride? I can give you a ride,\\\\u201d Elliot offers for the hundredth time. \\\\u201cNah, I\\\\u2019m good.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSowell Bay\\\\u2019s pretty far. You\\\\u2019ll be on buses all day and night.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ll camp on the side of the road,\\\\u201d says Cameron dryly. \\\\u201cHey!\\\\u201d Elliot jogs to catch up. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ve got a wild idea.\\\\u201d Wilder than fake pastrami made from yams? Cameron glances back over his shoulder. \\\\u201cWhat?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cMy buddy has this camper he\\\\u2019s trying to sell. It\\\\u2019s pretty old, but runs great. You buy it off him and then you\\\\u2019ve got a way to get around and a place to crash.\\\\u201d Cameron frowns. Actually, it\\\\u2019s not a terrible idea. But . . . a camper? Probably more than he can afford. He slips his phone from his pocket and checks the money-transfer app: there it is, two thousand dollars. In the notes, there\\\\u2019s a smiley-face emoji, followed by a warning: Don\\\\u2019t spend this on stupid When did Aunt Jeanne learn to use emojis? And does a camper qualify as stupid crap? Probably. Mostly to satisfy his curiosity, Cameron asks, \\\\u201cHow much does he want for it?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNot sure, exactly. A couple grand?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou think he\\\\u2019d take fifteen hundred?\\\\u201d Elliot grins. \\\\u201cI can probably talk him into that.\\\\u201d \\\\n Busted But Loyal At sunset, Sowell Bay\\\\u2019s public beach teems with rock crabs. One summer when Erik was small, the Sullivans were on an after-dinner walk when Erik found one who, by some cruel fate, had lost its hind legs on one side. Naturally, he insisted on bringing it home. He named it Eight-Legged Eddie because it was supposed to have ten limbs and was missing two. For a few weeks, Erik and Will watched poor Eddie clamber awkwardly around a glass tank filled with gravel from the driveway. Tova saved potato peelings and zucchini scraps for Eight-Legged Eddie\\\\u2019s nightly feeding, and once or twice Will drove down to the pet supply in Elland to purchase brine shrimp, which the crab devoured happily. For a crab, Eddie survived a long time, but one morning Tova found him frozen mid-scuttle, his peering eyeballs paused in that permanent sort of way. Will plucked the corpse between his fingers, ready to fling it into the garden, when Erik emerged from his bedroom in a panic, insisting on a proper burial. The boy dropped to the ground, flung himself around his father\\\\u2019s leg, and affixed himself there, like one of those hippie protestors chained to the trunk of a tree, determined to thwart the injustice. Erik\\\\u2019s handmade memorial stone still rests in the garden, under the overgrown ferns. RIP EIGHT-LEGGED EDDIE, BUSTED BUT LOYAL. Never has Tova empathized with that poor crab more than now, as she hobbles around her kitchen with her left foot ensconced in this ridiculous molded-plastic boot. Six weeks, Dr. Remy had said. Six useless weeks that she\\\\u2019ll be unable to pull the dandelions from her rhubarb beds. Six maddening weeks that her hallway baseboards will collect dust. Six unbearable weeks that the aquarium\\\\u2019s floors will be left in the hands of whomever Terry can find to fill the gap. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019ve got four good legs,\\\\u201d she remarks to Cat as she pours her coffee. \\\\u201cPerhaps I could borrow one of yours?\\\\u201d Cat licks his paw in answer. Before she can take her first steaming sip, the doorbell rings. \\\\u201cOh, for heaven\\\\u2019s sake.\\\\u201d She makes her way to the front door. \\\\u201cTova!\\\\u201d Janice\\\\u2019s sharp, clear voice rings through the windowpane. \\\\u201cSorry to drop by. Are you home?\\\\u201d Reluctantly, Tova twists the dead bolt. \\\\u201cOh, good,\\\\u201d Janice says, bustling in with a casserole dish. Her voice is characteristically flat when she states, \\\\u201cYou missed Knit-Wits this week.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYes. I\\\\u2019ve been indisposed.\\\\u201d Janice scoffs. \\\\u201cAs if!\\\\u201d There\\\\u2019s that sitcom speak again. \\\\u201cWhat happened? You fell at work? That\\\\u2019s what Ethan up at the Shop-Way said.\\\\u201d She lowers the dish onto Tova\\\\u2019s counter. Blood drains from Tova\\\\u2019s face. Ethan? How would he know? \\\\u201cNow, I\\\\u2019m not saying anything one way or the other,\\\\u201d Janice says, holding up a defensive hand, \\\\u201cbut if you need an attorney, I know a guy.\\\\u201d She reaches for her pocketbook. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ve got his number right here.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cJanice, please. It\\\\u2019s just a sprain.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cA bad sprain.\\\\u201d Janice eyes the boot. Then she removes her gauzy pink scarf and hangs it, along with her pocketbook, over the back of one of Tova\\\\u2019s kitchen chairs. Humming to herself, she snatches up the casserole dish, carries it to the refrigerator, and begins prodding around, searching for space. \\\\u201cTry the bottom shelf,\\\\u201d Tova mutters. \\\\u201cAha! There we go.\\\\u201d Janice swipes her hands. \\\\u201cBarb made that for you. Potato-leek, she said? Something like that. She was going on and on about some recipe she found online.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHow kind of her.\\\\u201d Tova limps toward the percolator. \\\\u201cShall I put on coffee?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNo, you should sit. Put that foot up.\\\\u201d Janice scoots in front of her and barricades the carafe. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ll do the coffee.\\\\u201d Janice\\\\u2019s coffee is always on the weak side, but Tova sits as instructed, keeping a watchful eye as Janice measures the grounds and water. \\\\u201cDoes that cat need to be fed?\\\\u201d Janice lowers her round glasses to peer skeptically at Cat, who is parked under Tova\\\\u2019s dinette chair. A gesture of solidarity on the animal\\\\u2019s part. \\\\u201cThank you, but he\\\\u2019s already had breakfast,\\\\u201d Tova says. Then, before Janice can get any ideas about cooking, she adds, \\\\u201cWe both have.\\\\u201d Cat flops over onto his side, showing off his new, rounder belly. All that casserole has plumped him up, and it suits him. Sympathy weight, as Tova calls it affectionately. \\\\u201cOkay, chill. I\\\\u2019m just trying to help.\\\\u201d Janice sets two steaming mugs on the table and sits. \\\\u201cDid you see Dr. Remy?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOf course,\\\\u201d Tova says with a huff. \\\\u201cAnd?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI told you. It\\\\u2019s a sprain.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHow long will you be off work?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cA few weeks,\\\\u201d Tova says truthfully. She leaves out the part where Dr. Remy ordered a bone-density test, and cautioned her that at her age, returning to work might not be advisable. Might not, he\\\\u2019d said. Nothing is set in stone yet. So why mention it? \\\\u201cA few weeks,\\\\u201d Janice repeats, eyeing the boot skeptically. \\\\u201cAnyway, I came over for a reason. Aside from making sure you were, you know, alive.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI see.\\\\u201d Tova takes an evaluative sip of the coffee Janice prepared. Might have used another tablespoon of grounds, but it\\\\u2019s decent. \\\\u201cTwo reasons, actually.\\\\u201d Tova nods, waiting. \\\\u201cOkay, so first thing I need to tell you. If you had been at Knit-Wits last Tuesday, you would\\\\u2019ve heard Mary Ann\\\\u2019s big news, but since you were gone . . .\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat is it?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cShe\\\\u2019s moving in with her daughter.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWith Laura? In Spokane?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThat\\\\u2019s right,\\\\u201d Janice confirms. \\\\u201cWhen?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBefore September. She\\\\u2019s putting the house on the market.\\\\u201d Tova nods slowly. \\\\u201cI see.\\\\u201d Janice takes off her round spectacles, then plucks a paper napkin from the holder on Tova\\\\u2019s tabletop and wipes the lenses. Squinting at Tova, she says, \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s for the best. The stairs in that house are steep, you know, and with the laundry in the basement . . .\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYes, that\\\\u2019s a challenge,\\\\u201d Tova agrees. The basement laundry was to blame for Mary Ann\\\\u2019s fall last year, the one that she was lucky to escape from with only a set of stitches. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s wonderful that Laura will have her. And Spokane. That will be quite a change.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYes, it will be.\\\\u201d Janice replaces her glasses. \\\\u201cWe\\\\u2019re planning a special luncheon to say goodbye. It might be a few weeks off, depending on how quickly everything moves, but you\\\\u2019ll attend, of course?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOf course. I wouldn\\\\u2019t miss it, even if I have to hobble there,\\\\u201d Tova says. And she means it. \\\\u201cGood.\\\\u201d Janice looks up, her face inscrutable. \\\\u201cYou know, after Mary Ann\\\\u2019s gone, we\\\\u2019ll be down to three Knit-Wits. At some point, we might ask ourselves what our long-term plan is, here.\\\\u201d Tova draws a long breath, trying to imagine how the Knit-Wits might function with just Barb, Janice, and herself. Without Mary Ann and her store-bought, oven-warmed cookies. They\\\\u2019ve been meeting for decades. Going to Knit-Wits is a well-worn habit. \\\\u201cWell, something for the three of us to talk about.\\\\u201d Janice rises and wraps her scarf around her shoulders. The scrape of her chair on the linoleum causes Cat, who\\\\u2019d apparently fallen asleep, to lift his head and open a distrustful eye. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019d better scoot. Timothy\\\\u2019s taking me to lunch at that new Tex-Mex place down in Elland.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHow lovely,\\\\u201d Tova says, trailing Janice to the front door. Janice\\\\u2019s son is always taking his mother out to eat. She imagines them dipping tortilla chips in a shared guacamole bowl. \\\\u201cOh! I almost forgot the second thing.\\\\u201d With a short laugh, Janice spins around and pulls a mobile phone from her pocketbook. \\\\u201cHere. This is yours.\\\\u201d Tova\\\\u2019s eyes narrow. \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t have a cell phone.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou do now.\\\\u201d Janice thrusts the device at her. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s Timothy\\\\u2019s old one, nothing fancy. But it\\\\u2019ll work in an emergency.\\\\u201d Inconspicuously, her eyes dart toward Tova\\\\u2019s boot. Tova\\\\u2019s jaw sets. \\\\u201cHow many times have I explained that I don\\\\u2019t need one of those? There\\\\u2019s a perfectly good telephone right there in the den. I don\\\\u2019t need to carry one around in my pocketbook.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou do, Tova, if you\\\\u2019re going to live here alone. Not to mention working alone in that aquarium, whenever that starts back up. What if you fell again? We all talked. We all agreed. You need a phone.\\\\u201d After a long pause, she extends her hand and allows Janice to drop the phone into her open palm. \\\\u201cThank you,\\\\u201d she says quietly. \\\\u201cGood, good.\\\\u201d Janice smiles. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ll have Timothy call to give you a little tutorial. And I\\\\u2019ll be in touch about Mary Ann\\\\u2019s luncheon. In the meantime, if you need anything . . .\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOf course.\\\\u201d Tova latches the door after Janice leaves. SUPPER WILL BE potato-leek casserole. Barb is not renowned for her culinary skills, but the dish smells delicious, and it bubbles tantalizingly as Tova peers through the oven door. At any rate, it\\\\u2019s a welcome change from her usual chicken and rice for supper. She must send Barbara a thank-you note. The timer dings. Tova leans over to pull the steaming dish from the oven. She has it halfway out, carefully balancing on her good ankle, when something inside her pocket attacks her. Zap! The casserole dish crashes to the floor, sending up a spray of oil and cheese. Zap! Tova takes one step toward the counter on the creamy linoleum and her boot slips out, sending her crashing down on her tailbone for the second time in a week. Zap, zap, zap! She pulls the wretched device out, its tiny strip of screen announcing an unknown caller. Jaw set, she flings it away. Why can\\\\u2019t people simply mind their own business? But now she must get herself up, and that\\\\u2019s going to be a challenge. Every time she tries to stand, she slides in the mess. The phone rests belly-up like a silver beetle on the far side of the kitchen. Not that she would even know how to operate it if she could get to it. Finally, she manages to hoist herself up into one of the dinette chairs. \\\\u201cFor heaven\\\\u2019s sake,\\\\u201d she mutters, using an absurd number of paper napkins to wipe her hands free of potato-leek casserole. CHICKEN AND RICE for supper. Eaten on the davenport, with the plate balanced on her lap. Just the way Will used to take his meals sometimes when there was a game on. \\\\u201cMy, look at us. How far we\\\\u2019ve fallen, haven\\\\u2019t we, Cat?\\\\u201d She strokes his soft forehead, then grabs the remote and turns on the evening news. The talking heads drone about the stock market and the weather, but Tova can\\\\u2019t focus on it. Her thoughts linger on Mary Ann\\\\u2019s big news. The beginning of Mary Ann\\\\u2019s ending, the first sentence of her last chapter. Unable to continue living on her own. Reverted to childlike dependence. At least her daughter Laura has the sense to take her in, rather than shuffling her off to one of those homes. Barbara would be taken care of by her girls down in Seattle. And Janice? She and Peter already live in the basement suite of Timothy\\\\u2019s house, tucked away neatly under her son and daughter-in-law\\\\u2019s busy lives above. Everyone had to go somewhere at some point. A man\\\\u2019s average life span is several years shorter than an average woman\\\\u2019s, and Tova has always considered this a quiet injustice. Will\\\\u2019s death was relatively straightforward, at least for Will himself. The cancer, the hospitalizations, the treatments: all of that was awful, but then nearly as terrible had been the paperwork, the insurance appeals, the arrangements. Tova had spent hours alone at the kitchen table, late at night, trying her best to sort it out. Who would repay her the favor when her time came? Or would the onslaught of paperwork simply shuffle off into an heirless void? She puts the bowl of chicken and rice on the coffee table (on a coaster, naturally) and makes her way over to the mantel, the plastic boot scuffing the rug. She trails a hand over its smooth cedar corners, hand-sanded and stained by her papa. The very bones of this house had been hewn by his axe, craftsmanship from the old world, good Swedish work that would stand for centuries. How much longer will she herself stand before something stokes the embers of her frailty? The narrow stairs, the uneven driveway? An errant casserole dish, a floor slick with cream and potatoes? Will they find her on the kitchen floor? Summon an ambulance to take her to the hospital? Who will fill out the admit forms, clipped to their clipboard? And that will merely be the beginning. Unless. That packet she picked up at Charter Village. Perhaps it\\\\u2019s time to fill out the application. \\\\n House Special Cameron is no expert on campers, but he\\\\u2019s fairly certain this one is a piece of shit. The engine rattles and a loose belt whines as he chugs up I-5. Elliot\\\\u2019s buddy had warned him it drove a little rough, and had even pointed out the replacement belt, still in its package, in the glove compartment. At least Cameron talked him into knocking the price down to twelve hundred bucks. It might be a piece of shit, but owning a vehicle outright feels good. Even if Aunt Jeanne\\\\u2019s not-a-loan paid for it. Now, having spent six of his remaining eight hundred\\\\u2013ish dollars on an overpriced latte, Cameron is tooling up the highway two hours north of Seattle, closing in on his target. The driver\\\\u2019s seat is upholstered in musty, scratchy brown fabric, and it\\\\u2019s making his back itch, somehow, through his shirt. The mattress in the back isn\\\\u2019t much better, in terms of comfort and smell. Last night had passed with very little sleep in the farthest corner of some vaguely industrial parking lot south of Seattle. He\\\\u2019d still been tossing and turning when he heard tires on gravel and bolted up to watch through the camper\\\\u2019s tiny window as cop car pulled in, its silhouette unmistakable in the predawn light. He scrambled into the driver\\\\u2019s seat and hightailed it out of there. Not a great first night in Washington. But today is a new day. Twenty miles to Sowell Bay, according to the last road sign. Twenty miles to Simon Brinks. How long will eight hundred dollars last? A while, especially now that he doesn\\\\u2019t have to pay for lodging. Until either he finds old Brinks or his duffel bag catches up with him. Eight hundred bucks is workable. The camper\\\\u2019s wipers are worthless at keeping the drizzle off the windshield, so he leans forward, squinting at the slick ribbon of highway. Then, brake lights bathe the dashboard red, and he brakes hard as a wall of gridlock materializes ahead. At least the brakes work. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel as he inches along, eyeing the mossy guardrail and the weedy shoulder. Everything is so green here. And the forest, the enormous evergreen trees crammed so tightly together, looking at them makes Cameron almost uncomfortable, as if he\\\\u2019s claustrophobic on their behalf. Ten miles to go, then five, then two. Off the highway, the WELCOME TO SOWELL BAY sign is faded and rusty. He drives straight to the address he found for the office of Simon Brinks, which turns out to be a nondescript space in a small commercial building off the highway. Brinks Development, Incorporated, the sign says. Cameron gets a bad feeling when there\\\\u2019s not another single vehicle in the parking lot. Sure enough, the door is locked. Well, it\\\\u2019s still early in the day. Maybe Brinks and his staff aren\\\\u2019t morning people. Cameron isn\\\\u2019t a morning person, either. Clearly, it\\\\u2019s an inherited trait. Now what? Maybe check out the aquarium? Maybe someone there knows something about when the Brinks Development offices open. Streaks of mildew run down its domed metal roof, speckled with scab-like clumps of moss and bird shit. Seagulls circle overhead as he walks across the parking lot, which is also weirdly empty. When he pulls on the door and finds it locked, Cameron understands why. \\\\u201cOpen at noon,\\\\u201d he mutters, reading the sign. Of course. What is it with this place? Feels like it\\\\u2019s half-asleep, or maybe half-dead. He looks out at the deserted boardwalk. If Cameron didn\\\\u2019t know better, he\\\\u2019d think there was a sewage pit nearby because, ugh, the smell. But it\\\\u2019s just seaweed baking on the rocks. Sulfur, like rotten eggs. One after another, tiny waves lap at the break wall. Noon is an hour away. An annoying length of time. Too late for breakfast, too early for lunch, but he could grab coffee. There was that deli up on the main road. Twice, he almost stalls the camper on the drive up the hill. He lets out a relieved breath, easing off the clutch when he finally gets to the top. THE DELI IS attached to a small grocery store, which appears to be deserted. Stepping inside is like a time warp. After a few moments, there\\\\u2019s a rustle from somewhere in the narrow aisles. Cameron half expects some black-and-white TV character to pop out. Instead, it\\\\u2019s an oldish guy with a reddish beard. A green Shop-Way apron strains around his middle, and his thick arms are loaded with packets of ramen he\\\\u2019d apparently been shelving. \\\\u201cMornin\\\\u2019,\\\\u201d he says. \\\\u201cHelp you find something?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cCoffee? I thought this was a restaurant?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cDeli\\\\u2019s up front. Follow me.\\\\u201d He drops the ramen packets in a heap on the floor. \\\\u201cI can wait,\\\\u201d Cameron says, nodding at the pile. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m not really in a hurry.\\\\u201d Red Beard turns back to him and says, \\\\u201cNonsense. I\\\\u2019ll get Tanner in here.\\\\u201d Then, without missing a beat, he bellows, \\\\u201cTanner!\\\\u201d From somewhere in the maze of cramped, narrow aisles, a sullen teen, also wearing a green Shop-Way apron, materializes. He scuffles along behind them toward the front. \\\\u201cHere y\\\\u2019are,\\\\u201d says Red Beard, flicking on the lights in the deli. Along with the tinge of bleach, there\\\\u2019s a used-food smell. Like pepper and onion. Hamburger Helper. It reminds him of his shitty old apartment, the one where he lived before moving in with Katie, where you could always tell what your neighbors were having for dinner from the hallway. Tanner hands him a laminated sheaf. \\\\u201cThat\\\\u2019s the menu, there,\\\\u201d says Red Beard needlessly. \\\\u201cThe lad will take your order once you\\\\u2019ve had a chance to look it over.\\\\u201d Cameron scans the menu. It looks like someone\\\\u2019s dog, or maybe someone\\\\u2019s toddler, chewed off one of the corners. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m good with black coffee,\\\\u201d he says, even though his stomach is rumbling. \\\\u201cTanner, make him the special,\\\\u201d Red Beard commands, and before Cameron can object, the kid gives a dopey nod and lopes off. Somewhere, in the unseen kitchen, a pan clanks, equipment whirs to life. Red Beard leans over and confides, \\\\u201cPastrami melt.\\\\u201d What is it with pastrami? He hopes this one won\\\\u2019t be made of yams. \\\\u201cOkay,\\\\u201d Cameron agrees, hesitant. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019ll be on the house. Tanner\\\\u2019s a bit of a greenhorn. Been tryin\\\\u2019 to get him hours in the kitchen, but we don\\\\u2019t get many victims these days.\\\\u201d Red Beard grins, sliding onto the vinyl bench across from him, running a hand over his freckled bulb of a head. \\\\u201cCare for some company?\\\\u201d Cameron shrugs. \\\\u201cI always go the extra mile for out-of-towners. A proper welcome.\\\\u201d Red Beard winks. \\\\u201cHow\\\\u2019d you know?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI know everyone around here.\\\\u201d Red Beard chuckles. \\\\u201cWhere ya from?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cCalifornia.\\\\u201d Red Beard lets out a low whistle. \\\\u201cCalifornia. Don\\\\u2019t tell me you\\\\u2019re one of those deep-pocket real estate wankers. You know, the flipper types.\\\\u201d Cameron lets out a hollow laugh at the thought owning real estate. \\\\u201cYeah, no. Just up here looking for . . . family.\\\\u201d The guy tilts his bald head. \\\\u201cAye? Thought maybe you looked familiar.\\\\u201d Cameron perks up; why didn\\\\u2019t he think of this angle right away? Red Beard is probably in his sixties, so older than his dad would be, but not by more than a decade or so. And he\\\\u2019s the sort of annoying guy who knows anyone and everyone; he said so himself. \\\\u201cYeah,\\\\u201d Cameron says. \\\\u201cLooking for my dad, actually.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat\\\\u2019s his name?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSimon Brinks. You know him?\\\\u201d Red Beard\\\\u2019s eyes widen at the name. \\\\u201cNot personally, no. Sorry.\\\\u201d Thumping bass pulses from the kitchen, some song Cameron has heard a million times but couldn\\\\u2019t name. Is this part of being in your thirties? Out of touch with the music kids like? He\\\\u2019d noticed the crowd seemed weirdly old at the last Moth Sausage show. Had they become classic rock? Well, they weren\\\\u2019t anything anymore. Red Beard frowns at the sound. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ll tell him to turn that nonsense down.\\\\u201d He starts to rise. Cameron holds up a hand, a wave of empathy for poor Tanner washing over him. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s okay. I don\\\\u2019t mind.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou kids and this racket you call music!\\\\u201d Red Beard shakes his head. \\\\u201cWell, I don\\\\u2019t think it\\\\u2019s so bad, and as the lead guitarist of Moth Sausage, I know music.\\\\u201d He regrets the words as soon as they\\\\u2019re out of his mouth. What an idiotic thing to bring up. \\\\u201cMoth Sausage? The actual Moth Sausage?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019ve . . . heard of us?\\\\u201d Cameron gapes. Their last single barely had a hundred downloads, and they\\\\u2019d assumed these were all Dell\\\\u2019s regulars, but maybe Red Beard was one of them. Brad will shit himself when he hears that someone listens to Moth Sausage a thousand miles away. He\\\\u2019ll probably even beg Cameron to get the band back together. Red Beard nods gravely. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m a huge fan.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWow,\\\\u201d says Cameron, truly out of words for once. \\\\u201cAww, don\\\\u2019t make that face. Now I feel terrible.\\\\u201d Red Beard\\\\u2019s cheeks flush to match his beard. \\\\u201cI was just yankin\\\\u2019 your chain.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAh,\\\\u201d Cameron says, cheeks flaming. \\\\u201cSo you weren\\\\u2019t joking. What kind of bloody name is Moth Sausage?\\\\u201d An asinine one. Tanner appears booth-side. \\\\u201cHouse special.\\\\u201d With a disinterested sigh, he sets down an oval platter piled high with fries. Somewhere under there, presumably, is a sandwich. It smells unbelievably delicious. \\\\u201cAnd?\\\\u201d Red Beard glares up at Tanner. \\\\u201cAnd . . . enjoy?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat about the coffee!\\\\u201d Cameron holds his hands up. \\\\u201cHey, it\\\\u2019s okay.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt is not okay.\\\\u201d Red Beard\\\\u2019s nostrils flare. \\\\u201cOur customer ordered a black coffee, did he not? Get on it!\\\\u201d Then he turns to Cameron. \\\\u201cSorry.\\\\u201d Tanner sulks off toward the kitchen, presumably to prepare a cup of coffee. Cameron hopes the kid doesn\\\\u2019t spit in it. \\\\u201cWell, coffee will be on the house, too. I\\\\u2019ll leave you to enjoy your lunch.\\\\u201d Red Beard slides out of the booth. \\\\u201cBest of luck tracking down your old man.\\\\u201d CAMERON SQUINTS IN the grayish light as he leaves the store. How can it be both overcast and blinding white? He fumbles in his pocket for his Ray-Bans, which might be why he doesn\\\\u2019t notice something wrong with the camper until he\\\\u2019s halfway across the Shop-Way parking lot. It\\\\u2019s leaning to one side. \\\\u201cNo. No, no, no,\\\\u201d Cameron groans, hurrying around the back of the camper to find exactly what he feared: the rear passenger tire completely flat. \\\\u201cShit!\\\\u201d he shouts, and gives the hubcap a hard kick, which jams his big toe. Wincing, he sits on the curb. His remaining money won\\\\u2019t last long after paying for a tow truck and a new tire. He checks his phone again to see if JoyJet has called with an update about his luggage. There\\\\u2019s nothing but a text from Elizabeth: How\\\\u2019s it going up there, Camel-tron? \\\\u201cHorrible. Beyond horrible,\\\\u201d he mumbles the answer to himself. Then, humiliated, he sees Red Beard standing in front of the store, staring across the parking lot with his hand aloft on his forehead like a visor, his reddish beard fluffing in the breeze. \\\\u201cLooks like you could use a hand, eh?\\\\u201d Red Beard comes strolling across the lot. He stops in front of Cameron and offers a literal hand. \\\\u201cBy the way, name\\\\u2019s Ethan.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThanks, man.\\\\u201d Cameron shakes and follows him back toward the store. \\\\n Day 1,322 of My Captivity I ENJOY FINGERPRINTS, BUT THIS IS A BIT MUCH. She has not come to clean in three days. The glass has become thick and rheumy. The floors are dull and caked with footprints. It is not good. You know I have three hearts, yes? This must seem strange, considering that humans, and most other species, have only one. I wish I could claim a higher level of spiritual being on account of my multiple vascular chambers, but alas, two of my hearts basically control my lungs and gills. The other is called my organ heart, and it powers everything else. I am accustomed to my organ heart stopping. It shuts down while I am swimming. It is one reason why I generally avoid the large main tank: too much swimming. Crawling is much gentler on my circulatory system, but the main tank floor, while rife with delicacies, is patrolled by the sharks. Swimming for long stretches tires me, so I suppose you could say I am well-suited for life in a small box. Humans sometimes say my heart skipped a beat to convey surprise, shock, terror. This confused me at first because my organ heart skips beats, many of them, every time I swim. But when the cleaning woman fell from the stool, I was not swimming. And yet it stuttered. I hope she heals, and not only because of the mess on the glass. \\\\n The Green Leotard It was a Wednesday, the night Erik died. Back in 1989, Wednesday evening meant Jazzercise at the Sowell Bay Community Center, and Tova rarely missed a class. Under her sweatpants, she wore an emerald-green leotard, which hugged her trim thirty-nine-year-old waist. Will loved that leotard; he always said it matched her eyes. This particular Wednesday, she came home and began to shed her exercise clothes, ready to draw a bath, as usual, but Will intercepted her. The last of the day\\\\u2019s sun filtered through the bedroom window, bathing their lovemaking in a giddy glow. Just think, Will had said, grinning at her as they laid on the bare sheets, the quilt scrunched at the foot of the bed. Soon, we\\\\u2019ll have the house to ourselves all the time. Erik would\\\\u2019ve started at the University of Washington that fall. Where was he that afternoon? Tova still doesn\\\\u2019t know. The police asked her repeatedly, but all she could tell them was he was probably out with friends. He was always out with friends, naturally; he was eighteen. Tova had stopped keeping tabs on the intricacies of his social schedule a couple of years ago. He was a good kid. A great kid. The green leotard didn\\\\u2019t make it to the hamper that Wednesday. Instead, it lay slung over the arm of the Charleston chair in the corner of Will and Tova\\\\u2019s living room, right where Will had flung it after he peeled it off of his wife. When the Sowell Bay Police came to the Sullivan house early the following day, after Will and Tova had reported that Erik had never come home from his late-night shift at the ferry ticket booth, the green leotard was still there, a blight on the otherwise tidy room. An unofficial part of the record. Tova remembers staring at it as the detectives talked. She still didn\\\\u2019t think it could be true. Erik was at a friend\\\\u2019s house. Sleeping on someone\\\\u2019s sofa. He\\\\u2019d forgotten to call. Good kids did that from time to time, did they not? Great kids, even. At some point, someone moved the leotard to the hamper. Tova must have laundered it, because who else ever did laundry? Certainly not Will. But she doesn\\\\u2019t remember. It slipped into some sort of void, as so many things did, once Erik\\\\u2019s disappearance was confirmed and he was declared dead. The Charleston chair is still there, although Tova had it reupholstered a few years afterward. She chose a paisley fabric in shades of blue and green, meant to be cheerful. But somehow the chair always seemed complicit, in spite of its new clothing. It will be the first to go when she moves. TOVA NEVER INTENDED to spend her adulthood in the house she grew up in. But then, so much about her life never turned out how she intended. She\\\\u2019d only been eight when Papa built the three-level house. The middle floor was for living. The lower floor, dug into the hillside, was the cellar, for storing apples and turnips and cans of lutefisk. The top level was an attic, for her mother\\\\u2019s trunks. The trunks were full of things Tova\\\\u2019s parents couldn\\\\u2019t bear to leave behind in Sweden: relics that didn\\\\u2019t quite fit their new American life. Embroidered linens; some forgotten matriarch\\\\u2019s inherited wedding china; wooden boxes and figurines, carefully painted with reds, blues, and yellows. On rainy afternoons, Tova and Lars would climb the ladder to the attic and play under its bare rafters. Picnics on lace-trimmed tablecloths with Dala Horses as guests, tea service from chipped bone cups. Then one summer, a few years later, Papa decided it was time to replace the ladder with a staircase. He enlisted two of his best shop-hands to help. They worked from dawn to nightfall. Papa\\\\u2019s health was starting to fail, even then. Tova remembers how he rested on a chair in the hallway while the younger men drove nails through the cedar planks. Once the staircase was built, the shop-hands packed slag wool into the rafters and sanded the floorboards. Meanwhile, Papa worked on the attic\\\\u2019s amenities, building a dollhouse into one corner and a stout table into another. He built two wooden chairs, and he carved flowering vines into their legs and etched a string of stars onto their backrests. When it was done, Mama came through with her broom. Papa beat the cobwebs from a woven rug that\\\\u2019d been rolled up in a corner and laid it in the center of the finished room. All of them, Tova and Lars and Mama and Papa and the two shop-hands, stood on the rug, admiring. Sunlight struggled to come through the filthy dormer window. Mama attacked it with a vinegar-soaked cloth until it gleamed. \\\\u201cNow,\\\\u201d Papa said, patting the window frame, \\\\u201cyou children have a proper place for play.\\\\u201d But they weren\\\\u2019t children anymore. Lars was a teenager, and Tova just two years behind. They used the converted attic some, but soon, their interest in playrooms waned. Tova considered it some kind of mercy that Papa hadn\\\\u2019t been around to see them abandon the room he\\\\u2019d worked so hard on. Really, it ought to have been a grandchild\\\\u2019s playroom. But, of course, she and Will never had grandchildren. Erik was young when Will and Tova moved back into the house to take care of Mama. Tova wanted to donate Erik\\\\u2019s baby toys, but Mama insisted: save them for your own grandchildren one day. So Tova stashed them in the attic. They remained there after Erik died. They remain there now. The only thing that\\\\u2019s changed is the dormer window. Will had it replaced. It was a few years after Erik died, and Will had an incident. The sort of thing grief can do to a person. Tova doesn\\\\u2019t like to think about the incident. That wasn\\\\u2019t Will\\\\u2019s norm. But then, nothing is normal when you lose a child. Tova, being practical, said the new window was an upshot of the incident. It was larger, brighter. Now, as she crosses the attic room it feels as though she might walk right through the glass and into the treetops on the other side. It really is a beautiful room. It has the best view of the water. Once, she and Will met with a real estate agent, just to see. \\\\u201cIncredible,\\\\u201d the agent had gushed. \\\\u201cThis whole house is incredible. You\\\\u2019d never know all this was back here!\\\\u201d This was true. Tucked into the hillside at the end of a steep, rocky driveway choked with blackberry bushes, one could drive right by and never know the house was there. The agent ran her fingertips over the railing on the staircase and cooed at the attic\\\\u2019s soaring beams, high and polished like a cathedral. From one shelf in the attic, she picked up a toy car with one wheel missing. Erik\\\\u2019s car. \\\\u201cWe\\\\u2019ll need to get rid of all this stuff, of course, before we list,\\\\u201d the agent said. They decided not to sell. The toy car is still there. Tova picks it up and slips it into her robe pocket. This time, it\\\\u2019ll be different. IT\\\\u2019S VERY LATE when Tova makes her way to bed. Cat sleeps in a little pile on the bedspread, his flank moving gently up and down. She pulls the covers back carefully so as not to wake him. She smiles to herself. Never would she have imagined sharing her bed with an animal, but she\\\\u2019s glad he\\\\u2019s here. She drifts into a strange world. A dream, it must be, but she\\\\u2019s not entirely sure, for it feels so mundane. In the dream she\\\\u2019s lying right here on her firm bed cradled in her own arms, then the arms start to grow, weaving around her like a baby\\\\u2019s swaddle. The arms have suckers, a million tiny suckers, each one pulling at her skin, and the tentacles grow longer until they\\\\u2019ve created a cocoon and everything is dark and silent. A powerful feeling washes over her, and after a moment Tova recognizes the feeling as relief. The cocoon is warm and soft, and she is alone, blissfully alone. Finally, she succumbs to sleep. \\\\n Not Glamorous Work Cameron sits at Ethan\\\\u2019s kitchen table, not sure whether he\\\\u2019s supposed to be hanging out here, or what. Ethan called a buddy of his who drives for a towing company, and although the guy hadn\\\\u2019t seemed thrilled about it, he hauled Cameron\\\\u2019s camper here, at no charge, to Ethan\\\\u2019s house, and deposited it in the driveway. Cameron thanked him about a million times. The flat tire still needs to be dealt with, but at least he\\\\u2019s not stuck in a grocery store parking lot. But all of that took hours to sort out. It\\\\u2019s five now. So much for getting back to Brinks Development as planned. \\\\u201cYou sure it\\\\u2019s okay if I park here?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cLong as you keep the noise down in the morning.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m not exactly a morning person,\\\\u201d Cameron says, laughing. At least he won\\\\u2019t have to worry about finding some shady parking lot to sleep in tonight. Taking another sip of whiskey, he feels his shoulders ease infinitesimally. For the first time since he left Modesto, he feels almost relaxed. \\\\u201cTo tell you the truth, I\\\\u2019m glad for a bit of company.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSame,\\\\u201d Cameron agrees. And even though Ethan had said he didn\\\\u2019t know Simon Brinks, he might be of use. He seems to know everyone here. How many degrees of separation can there be? Even rich guys like Brinks must need to buy milk once in a while. An idea seizes Cameron. A brilliant one. \\\\u201cEthan,\\\\u201d he ventures. \\\\u201cAye?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIs the Shop-Way hiring?\\\\u201d Cameron leans across the table. \\\\u201cWhat I mean is, would you hire me?\\\\u201d Ethan seems to consider this for a moment. \\\\u201cI can work a register.\\\\u201d Cameron has never used a cash register in his life, but how hard can it be? \\\\u201cStock shelves. Wipe tables. Whatever.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, I\\\\u2019m sorry, but there\\\\u2019s just not enough work.\\\\u201d Ethan shakes his head. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019d have to give Tanner the axe.\\\\u201d Deflated, Cameron drains his glass. \\\\u201cRight. Never mind.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBut if you\\\\u2019re lookin\\\\u2019 for work, I might know of something.\\\\u201d Ethan pours him another scotch. The amber liquid lets off a warm, intoxicating smell as it swirls into the glass. \\\\u201cI can put you in touch if you want.\\\\u201d Cameron props his chin on his fist. The damn camper tire. Ethan\\\\u2019s tow-truck buddy whistled low as he squatted down to examine it. Something about a cracked rim, a bent wheel well. Not good. When he jacked up the rim on his old Jeep a few years ago, repairing it cost several hundred dollars. Not to mention that his luggage is still missing, and he needs to pay Aunt Jeanne\\\\u2019s cruise money back. He needs to generate some cash. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s a maintenance position, of sorts,\\\\u201d Ethan adds. \\\\u201cNot glamorous work.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNot a problem.\\\\u201d Cameron lifts his head. \\\\u201cCan you hook me up?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAs a matter of fact, I\\\\u2019ve got the application here somewhere. My mate gave me a stack to set out on the deli counter at the store.\\\\u201d Ethan rises and stalks out of the kitchen, calling over his shoulder that he\\\\u2019ll be right back. Moments later, he returns, waving a sheet of paper. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ll fill it out now.\\\\u201d Cameron picks up a pen that\\\\u2019s sitting on the table. A slow grin spreads over Ethan\\\\u2019s face. \\\\u201cWell, on my recommendation, you\\\\u2019re a shoo-in, laddie. So what do you say we have some fun with it?\\\\u201d THE NEXT MORNING, at quarter to eleven, Cameron returns to the aquarium. This time, the door swings open. Ethan apparently called his \\\\u201cmate\\\\u201d first thing this morning, then banged on the camper door at ten, stirring Cameron out of a heavy sleep. Ethan\\\\u2019s green eyes were bright; it seemed he was completely unaffected by their late night. In a chipper tone, he told Cameron to be down there in an hour for his interview. \\\\u201cRemember, his name\\\\u2019s Terry and he\\\\u2019s a bit of a fish geek, but he\\\\u2019s a fantastic bloke,\\\\u201d Ethan had explained for what felt like the tenth time. \\\\u201cJust relax, and I\\\\u2019m sure he\\\\u2019ll offer you the job on the spot.\\\\u201d The guy who swivels around in the office chair is not what Cameron had expected for a so-called fish geek. He could be a linebacker. He\\\\u2019s clearly in the middle of a phone call, but he nods at Cameron to come in. Sorry, he mouths, before turning back to his phone conversation. Cameron hovers in the doorway, caught in the awkward place between not wanting to eavesdrop but wanting to follow instructions. He doesn\\\\u2019t need to start off a job interview by flouting orders. The fish geek lowers his voice. \\\\u201cTova, look, I\\\\u2019ll tell you the same thing I told you last time you called. If your doctor says six weeks, I insist you take it.\\\\u201d Brows furrowed, he scowls at whatever response comes from the other end. \\\\u201cOkay. Fine. Four weeks, and we\\\\u2019ll reevaluate.\\\\u201d Another pause. \\\\u201cYes, of course I\\\\u2019ll make sure they\\\\u2019re capable.\\\\u201d Pause. \\\\u201cYes, I know how the scum builds up around the trash cans.\\\\u201d Pause. \\\\u201cYes, I\\\\u2019ll make sure they use pure cotton. Polyester will streak the glass. Got it.\\\\u201d Pause. \\\\u201cAll right. You take care, too.\\\\u201d At this, a note of tenderness creeps into his voice, which lilts with some vague accent that might be Caribbean. Not that Cameron has ever been to the Caribbean. Letting out a long sigh, the fish geek replaces the receiver, shakes his head, and stands to offer his hand. \\\\u201cTerry Bailey. You must be here for the interview?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah.\\\\u201d Cameron straightens, remembering what Ethan told him. \\\\u201cI mean, yes, sir. The maintenance position.\\\\u201d He passes his application over the desk. \\\\u201cGood, good.\\\\u201d Terry sits back down and starts to scan the paper. Cameron sits, too, suddenly regretting everything he wrote. He and Ethan had thrown back most of that bottle of scotch, and Ethan had assured him that whatever he wrote didn\\\\u2019t matter, that his recommendation truly was good as gold. Maybe they\\\\u2019d had too much fun with it. Terry frowns. \\\\u201cYou managed tank maintenance at SeaWorld?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cRight.\\\\u201d Cameron nods. \\\\u201cAnd you were on the crew that constructed the shark tank at Mandalay Bay? Like . . . in Las Vegas?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah.\\\\u201d Cameron feels his mouth twitch. Too far? Terry\\\\u2019s voice falls flat. \\\\u201cThe shark exhibit at Mandalay Bay went in back in . . . what was it, 1994, I think?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYep. Gotta love the nineties, man.\\\\u201d Cameron chuckles, trying for nonchalance. Terry\\\\u2019s not buying it. \\\\u201cYou couldn\\\\u2019t have even been born yet.\\\\u201d Cameron was born in 1990, but it doesn\\\\u2019t seem wise to point that out to Terry. Instead, he says, \\\\u201cYeah, so some of that might be an exaggeration.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOkay. Thanks for your time. You can go.\\\\u201d Cameron looks up, surprised at how effectively the words pierce him. \\\\u201cI mean it.\\\\u201d Terry\\\\u2019s voice is flat. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re wasting my time.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWait!\\\\u201d Cameron says, horrified at his pathetic, pleading tone. But that damn tire. Aunt Jeanne\\\\u2019s cruise. He absolutely needs to land some cash, and quick. Pointing at the application, he says, \\\\u201cOkay. None of this is true.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou don\\\\u2019t say.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cEthan said you would think it\\\\u2019s funny.\\\\u201d Terry sighs. \\\\u201cBut, man, hear me out,\\\\u201d Cameron goes. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m in a tough spot. I can do repairs, maintenance, whatever you need . . . I\\\\u2019ve got years of construction experience. Building luxury homes for rich pricks down in California.\\\\u201d He doesn\\\\u2019t add that he\\\\u2019s been fired a zillion times, but he\\\\u2019s worried it\\\\u2019s written on his face. Terry leans back and crosses his arms, arches one brow. Universal code for Fine, I\\\\u2019m listening. Cameron leans forward, earnest. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ve sealed up more Carrara marble than you could imagine. Whatever you need done, I can do it. Promise.\\\\u201d Terry stares at the application for what seems like a ridiculously long time. Finally, he looks up, eyes narrow. \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t care about California or Carrara marble. And I do not appreciate this little stunt.\\\\u201d Cameron studies his hands, which are knotted together in his lap. This is weirdly like being in the principal\\\\u2019s office being chewed out for sneaking cigarettes under the bleachers. He probably deserves it now, just like he did then. Terry goes on, \\\\u201cYou know, when I went to apply for college in the United States, my standardized test scores were not that great. But I knew sea life, I sure did. I was raised on a fishing boat outside Kingston.\\\\u201d He shifts a stack of papers on his messy desk. \\\\u201cI knew I wanted to come here to study marine biology, and a lot of people took a chance on me to make that happen.\\\\u201d Cameron glances up at the framed diploma behind his desk. Summa cum laude. Terry\\\\u2019s more than a fish geek, apparently. He\\\\u2019s some sort of fish genius. \\\\u201cSo you . . . want to give me a chance?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNot really.\\\\u201d Terry eyes him, hard. \\\\u201cI expect you\\\\u2019re the sort that\\\\u2019s had plenty of chances. Opportunities you don\\\\u2019t even realize. But you throw them away.\\\\u201d Ouch. \\\\u201cAnyway, I\\\\u2019ll give you a chance, but not because I think you deserve one. I\\\\u2019m throwing Ethan a bone. I beat the pants off him in a poker game a while back and he won\\\\u2019t shut his trap about it.\\\\u201d Terry lets out a chuckle. \\\\u201cThank you, sir,\\\\u201d Cameron says, sitting up straight. \\\\u201cYou won\\\\u2019t regret it.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cDon\\\\u2019t you want to know what the job actually consists of?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI thought it was maintenance.\\\\u201d Surely Ethan had mentioned Cameron\\\\u2019s experience in construction. He\\\\u2019d pictured himself patching roofs and fixing leaky faucets. \\\\u201cWell, yes. Chopping bait. Cleaning buckets. That type of thing.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOkay.\\\\u201d Bait. How bad could it be? And anyway, it\\\\u2019s only until his luggage shows up, or he finds Simon Brinks, whichever comes first. Of course, he doesn\\\\u2019t mention that to Terry. \\\\u201cTwenty bucks an hour, twenty hours a week.\\\\u201d Cameron\\\\u2019s optimism sinks as he runs through the math in his head. After taxes, and gas for the camper, it\\\\u2019ll be the end of summer before he can pay Aunt Jeanne back, even if he can save some cash by eating the expired groceries Ethan brings back from the store. End of summer is too late for her cruise deposit. \\\\u201cI mean, I would take more hours if you offered them,\\\\u201d Cameron says. Terry steeples his fingers and, after a thoughtful pause, says, \\\\u201cYou clean, kiddo?\\\\u201d Reflexively, Cameron glances down at his shirt, which maybe he should have thrown in the laundry back at Ethan\\\\u2019s place. Then he realizes what Terry must mean. His . . . record. \\\\u201cWell, mostly. Got a couple misdemeanors. This one time, the bar was closing, and\\\\u2014\\\\u201d Terry shakes his head. \\\\u201cNo. I mean, do you clean? As in, can you mop floors?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh.\\\\u201d Cameron considers this. \\\\u201cUh, yeah, totally.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI can give you more hours, then. Evening hours. But,\\\\u201d Terry holds up a prohibitive finger, \\\\u201cthis part is temporary. I need someone to fill in for my regular cleaning lady for a few weeks.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNot a problem.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAnd, know this, Cameron Cassmore. Ethan Mack might not be very good at giving advice on job applications, but he is a very good friend of mine. I\\\\u2019m giving you a chance on his word.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cUnderstood.\\\\u201d Cameron nods. \\\\u201cDon\\\\u2019t let him down.\\\\u201d WHILE HE WAITS for Ethan to pick him up, Cameron wanders down the pier. High noon sun throws flashy streaks of silver over the water\\\\u2019s surface. A group of paddleboarders sends little ripples toward the dock. In his pocket, his fingers find the key card. He\\\\u2019s never had a boss who trusted him with a key before. He takes it out and snaps a pic of the key card with the water in the background, then texts the photo to Aunt Jeanne. As he hits send, a call comes in. Cameron recognizes the number immediately; it\\\\u2019s the one he\\\\u2019s called about a thousand times this week. Left a half-dozen voice mails. His heart speeds up as he taps the green button. \\\\u201cThis is Cameron,\\\\u201d he says, putting on a businesslike air. \\\\u201cHello. This is John Hall from Brinks Development, Sowell Bay office.\\\\u201d The voice sounds tired. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019ve left several messages here. Is there something I can help you with?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah!\\\\u201d Cameron draws in a bracing breath. \\\\u201cI mean, yes. I\\\\u2019d like to make an appointment to meet with Mr. Brinks.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m afraid that\\\\u2019s not possible at the moment.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhy not?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cMr. Brinks works out of his office in Seattle most of the time. I\\\\u2019d recommend you try to reach him there.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI tried!\\\\u201d As if Cameron wouldn\\\\u2019t have tried. It\\\\u2019s the number listed on their damn website. \\\\u201cThey told me he was unavailable.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, then I suppose he\\\\u2019s unavailable.\\\\u201d John Hall\\\\u2019s voice is flat. \\\\u201cBut he can\\\\u2019t be unavailable!\\\\u201d Cameron hates how his voice is trending whiny, like it did when he was begging Katie not to throw his shit out the window. \\\\u201cPlease. It\\\\u2019s important.\\\\u201d John Hall is shuffling some papers or something on the other end of the line. In the distance, a train\\\\u2019s horn sounds, and Cameron can swear he hears the same train, right here on the pier. How could he get so close, yet still be so far? Finally, Hall asks, \\\\u201cWho did you say you were again?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cCameron Cassmore. I\\\\u2019m . . . family.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI see. Well, then.\\\\u201d There\\\\u2019s a long pause, and then Hall continues, his voice careful, \\\\u201cYou might know, Mr. Brinks can often be found at his summer home this time of year.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSummer home? Where?\\\\u201d Hall laughs. \\\\u201cI can\\\\u2019t just give out his address. Perhaps someone in your family can tell you.\\\\u201d By the time Cameron has processed this, the line has gone dead. He sinks onto a bench, slumping. How the hell is he supposed to find some vacation mansion? Before he slips his phone back in his pocket, he sees Aunt Jeanne\\\\u2019s reply: a champagne emoji followed by I\\\\u2019m proud of you, Cammy. \\\\n Day 1,324 of My Captivity TERRY HAS MADE A REPLACEMENT. SWAPPED OUT THE older lady for a younger model, as you humans might say. He walked by my tank on the way to his interview. Shoulders pulled toward his earlobes, damp palms: clearly anxious. When he departed, his gait was fluid, relaxed. I could tell it had been a successful interview. Something about the way he walked seemed . . . familiar. I wish I had more chance to study it, but he left the building too quickly. I suppose I shall have my chance soon. This evening, perhaps. Not a day too soon. Last night, I journeyed around the bend to see whether the rock crabs were molting, as they are most delicious when their shells are soft. The state of the floor was, frankly, alarming. After I returned to my tank, I spent quite a while picking bits of grime from between my suckers. I do hope the young man starts his new job tonight. The rock crabs were not yet molting, but they will be tomorrow. I do not relish another trip over those disgusting floors. As for the previous cleaning woman, I can only surmise she is not coming back. I shall miss her. \\\\n A Sucker for Injured Creatures Cameron\\\\u2019s spine feels like someone thrashed it with a baseball bat. Chopping up buckets full of mackerel bait and hauling them all over that aquarium is no joke. His lower back throbs, and there\\\\u2019s a nasty knot under his left shoulder blade and some annoying thing keeps popping in his neck every time he turns his head to the right, which is pretty often because the camper\\\\u2019s passenger-side mirror is busted. The mattress isn\\\\u2019t helping. After several nights, Cameron finally couldn\\\\u2019t take it anymore. The camper\\\\u2019s previous owner must have used it as a urinal. The stale-piss stench was so bad last night that he dragged it out and flung it onto Ethan\\\\u2019s driveway, opting to sleep on the greasy plank of plywood instead. How bad could it be? he\\\\u2019d thought, half-asleep. It turns out: pretty bad. He\\\\u2019s getting old. Thirty, after all. At least the tire and wheel well are fixed. Only took seven hundred of his eight hundred dollars. Assuming that his bag doesn\\\\u2019t magically show up, he just has to limp along on that last hundred until his first paycheck from the aquarium, which will be this Friday. Three more days. Wincing at another crack in his neck, he makes one last right-hand turn and pulls onto Sowell Bay\\\\u2019s main commercial block with its woeful little strip of shops. The realtor\\\\u2019s office Ethan told him about is right in the middle. He parks in front and walks past an ancient meter that doesn\\\\u2019t look like it could possibly be in service. The storefront door lets out an anemic-sounding chime, like a kid\\\\u2019s toy with dying batteries, as he pulls it open. \\\\u201cCan I help you?\\\\u201d The realtor is a middle-aged woman with bleached blond hair and a narrow, expressionless face. Cameron introduces himself and explains he\\\\u2019s looking for Simon Brinks. The realtor laughs and shakes her head. \\\\u201cI mean, I\\\\u2019ve seen his advertisements, but I can\\\\u2019t say I know him.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHe\\\\u2019s in real estate, and you\\\\u2019re in real estate. There\\\\u2019s no way you could help me get in touch with him?\\\\u201d Cameron glances down at a plaque on the desk. JESSICA SNELL. \\\\u201cIt would really do me a solid, Jess.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s Jessica,\\\\u201d she says flatly. Hers eyes flit around the empty office. There\\\\u2019s a calendar sponsored by some sort of adventure outfitter tacked to the wall, already flipped to August, which features a lone figure in a rowboat casting a rod over a misty lake. It\\\\u2019s only the second week of July, and for some reason the calendar\\\\u2019s premature turnover annoys the shit out of him. \\\\u201cPlease?\\\\u201d Smiling sweetly, Cameron presses his palms together. \\\\u201cI really need to find him.\\\\u201d The agent narrows her eyes, her face crinkling into a sour shape, her papery skin finding the creases far too easily, like his old baseball glove. Adjusting her eyeglasses, she says, \\\\u201cWho did you say you were, again?\\\\u201d He straightens as he restates his name. After a hesitation, he adds, \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m Brinks\\\\u2019s son.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHis son?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cProbably. Or, like . . . maybe.\\\\u201d Cameron squares his shoulders. \\\\u201cI mean, I have good reason to believe he\\\\u2019s my father.\\\\u201d Jessica Snell raises a brow. \\\\u201cSolid evidence. I have solid evidence.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t understand why you need my help, then.\\\\u201d The realtor shrugs. \\\\u201cJust ask someone else in your family? Your mother?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cMy mother abandoned me when I was nine.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cGosh. That\\\\u2019s terrible.\\\\u201d Her eyes widen a bit, her jaw softens. Hook, line, sinker. He\\\\u2019s the fisherman in that picture, and she\\\\u2019s a guppy waiting in the lake. \\\\u201cAnd I don\\\\u2019t really have other family, you know?\\\\u201d At this, Cameron crosses his fingers behind his back. Surely Aunt Jeanne would understand, given the situation, the need for this tiny distortion of the truth. Jessica Snell nods, sympathy etched around her eyes. \\\\u201cSo yeah. I\\\\u2019ve never met my dad,\\\\u201d Cameron continues. \\\\u201cMy mother kept us apart.\\\\u201d Well, she did, didn\\\\u2019t she? At any point during her nine years with Cameron, she could\\\\u2019ve told him something, anything, about his father. And at any point since, she could\\\\u2019ve reached out to him. At least made an attempt to repair the mess she made. At least been available for Cameron to ask the question. So, yes, this is true. Like so many other things, this is his mother\\\\u2019s fault. And, in a metaphorical sense, it is his mother who kept them apart. If she hadn\\\\u2019t been such a mess, maybe Simon, or whoever his father is, if not the guy in the photo, would\\\\u2019ve stuck around. Snell nibbles her thin bottom lip and glances quickly from side to side like she\\\\u2019s preparing to misbehave. \\\\u201cHere\\\\u2019s the deal. I couldn\\\\u2019t make it to the regional convention last year.\\\\u201d With a huff, she clarifies: \\\\u201cI mean, I could have, I was even registered, but then my daughter had a piano recital, and even though the convention is the biggest trade show in the area, it\\\\u2019s hard to balance those things, you know?\\\\u201d Cameron nods firmly as if he empathizes deeply with this particular dilemma. Looking down, he notices a ceramic paperweight on Jessica\\\\u2019s desk, a large and stern-looking green frog. On the base, in playful lettering, it reads: NO BULL ACCEPTED HERE. Aunt Jeanne would approve. The agent hikes her glasses up again. Why doesn\\\\u2019t she adjust them to fit? It\\\\u2019s an easy fix with a micro screwdriver. She continues, \\\\u201cRight, so this convention. I skipped it, but I\\\\u2019m sure Brinks went. He lives for those things, from what I hear. A fan of the open bar, so the rumors go.\\\\u201d She extends out her pinkie and thumb and mock-tips her hand. Resisting the urge to run his finger along the NO BULL frog\\\\u2019s rounded back, which is covered in a layer of dust, Cameron nods again. \\\\u201cAnyway, they send out a directory of attendees to everyone registered. I could look him up.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSeriously, thank you. It would mean so much to me.\\\\u201d Cameron\\\\u2019s smile widens, and Snell\\\\u2019s cheeks flush slightly. \\\\u201cHave a seat. It\\\\u2019ll take me a minute to dig that directory out.\\\\u201d As Snell disappears off to some back room, Cameron sits. A scene begins to play out in his mind: a gray-haired man in a well-tailored suit beckoning him toward a polished mahogany bar, summoning a barkeep. You should know the good life, son, the man says, leaning an elbow on the shining bar while patting the seat next to him, which is topped in a pouf of immaculate burgundy leather, unlike the hard stools back at Dell\\\\u2019s, which have grimy ass-prints permanently ground into them. The man smiles warmly at Cameron, and he has a dimple on his left cheek, the same one Cameron has, and something inside him feels like it\\\\u2019s bubbling up, going to overflow, and it takes him a long moment to realize it\\\\u2019s a heady cocktail of joy and relief. Gold liquid splashes soundlessly into two glasses; cognac maybe, or top-notch whiskey like the stuff Ethan had. The liquor cascades over oversized ice cubes, and the man is about to clap him affectionately on the back when\\\\u2014 Ding-dong! He jerks his head around to see a girl standing, fists clenched, just inside the real estate office door. Her hair is soaking wet. She\\\\u2019s hot, easily the most attractive he\\\\u2019s seen in Sowell Bay. Somehow, her furious expression makes her even hotter. The girl calls, \\\\u201cJess!\\\\u201d in a dull, exasperated way that makes Cameron think this is a repeated occurrence. Still admiring the intruder, he congratulates himself for guessing the realtor\\\\u2019s nickname correctly. He flings a thumb toward the back room. \\\\u201cShe\\\\u2019s back there.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOkay. Any idea when she\\\\u2019ll be back?\\\\u201d Her voice is tinged with impatience. She crosses her arms over her chest, which jams her small but perky boobs toward her tank top\\\\u2019s neckline, and in an instant Cameron finds himself shifting in the chair. What is he, twelve years old? But, really, it has been three weeks since Katie. He sets his jaw. \\\\u201cI dunno? Soon?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat is she doing?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cUm, serving me? Her . . . client?\\\\u201d The girl barks a laugh and steps toward him. She smells like sunscreen. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re a client?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhy wouldn\\\\u2019t I be?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh, I don\\\\u2019t know. Maybe because Jessica Snell sells multimillion-dollar homes? You reek worse than a stadium bathroom during the fourth quarter of a Seahawks game. Also, you have something brown\\\\u2014which I honestly hope, for your sake, is chocolate\\\\u2014smeared on your chin.\\\\u201d Cameron\\\\u2019s hand flies up, remembering the chocolate-coated protein bar he had for breakfast. There\\\\u2019s hardly a goddamn functioning mirror in the camper. How would he have known? \\\\u201cOkay, so I\\\\u2019m not here to buy some mansion, but Jess is helping me out with something.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhatever,\\\\u201d she mutters. She runs a hand through her sopping hair, then lifts the wavy mass from her neck, revealing a pink bikini strap knotted at the nape of her neck. The girl tilts her chin toward the back room and yells again, \\\\u201cJESS!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cGood lord, Avery.\\\\u201d Snell strides up the hallway, her face once again set into that all-too-natural scowl. Avery doesn\\\\u2019t mince words. \\\\u201cYou messed up the hot water again.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI lowered the temperature on the tank.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cLowered it to what, subarctic?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m just trying to reduce our utility bill.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019d rather give a few bucks to the gas company than freeze my ass off in the shower!\\\\u201d Girl. Shower. Cameron tries to summon another image, literally anything else, and lands on the Welina Mobile Park\\\\u2019s chlamydia problem. Jessica Snell plants her hands on her hips. \\\\u201cWell, most people don\\\\u2019t shower at their place of business.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh, come on,\\\\u201d Avery says, with a prickly laugh. \\\\u201cYou know I paddle in the morning and rinse off before I open the store. I just froze my ass off.\\\\u201d Jessica Snell juts her chin at the younger woman, who Cameron has by now deduced is associated with the shop next door. He remembers seeing a surf shop there. Snell sniffs as she says, \\\\u201cNowhere does the lease guarantee an endless supply of hot water.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI guess the lease depends on neighbors to be decent humans.\\\\u201d Avery casts Cameron a hopeful look, like he might make a heroic interference on her behalf. But there\\\\u2019s that paper in the realtor\\\\u2019s hand: a road map to his maybe deadbeat father. He shrugs impartially. Avery glowers briefly at Cameron, then glares at Snell. \\\\u201cWhatever. I\\\\u2019ll pay the extra. Keep the hot water on high.\\\\u201d With a whiff of her coconut scent and another obnoxious door chime, she huffs out, slamming the office door. \\\\u201cSorry.\\\\u201d A nervous smile spreads over the agent\\\\u2019s face. \\\\u201cNo worries.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, good news. I found an address for Simon Brinks.\\\\u201d Handing over the paper, she adds softly, \\\\u201cGood luck, and I\\\\u2019ll keep you in my prayers. I hope your reunion with your father is filled with joy.\\\\u201d Cameron thanks her again and tucks the paper in his pocket. \\\\u201cIT WAS CHOCOLATE.\\\\u201d Cameron strolls across the short stretch of sidewalk to where Avery is setting up a sandwich-board sign outside the surfing store, or whatever this place is. \\\\u201cWhat?\\\\u201d She squints at him, holding up a hand to block the bright morning light. \\\\u201cThat brown stuff on my face. It wasn\\\\u2019t actual shit. It was chocolate.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThanks for letting me know.\\\\u201d Her voice is bone-dry. \\\\u201cWell, you seemed overly invested in my state of being back there.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOkay.\\\\u201d She dusts her hands and strides toward the open door of the store. SOWELL BAY PADDLE SHOP, the logo emblazoned on the front window says. As he follows her through the door, he\\\\u2019s greeted by neat rows of tall, thick boards on one side of the room, and plastic kayaks and canoes stacked against the opposite wall. \\\\u201cI mean, I\\\\u2019m not some weirdo,\\\\u201d he presses. But he\\\\u2019s sort of acting like a weirdo, and doesn\\\\u2019t seem able to stop himself. And that damn mattress! He does probably reek of piss. He backtracks a step, putting a bit more distance between himself and the back of Avery\\\\u2019s cutoff shorts, which fit her perfectly. She spins around to face him, her face expressionless. \\\\u201cCan I help you find something here, or . . . ?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cMaybe I\\\\u2019m just browsing.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cFine. Browse away. But don\\\\u2019t mess anything up.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat am I, a toddler?\\\\u201d Avery smirks. \\\\u201cChocolate all over your face, and you smell like you peed your pants. If the shoe fits . . .\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOkay, I won\\\\u2019t touch anything. You can assure your boss the inventory won\\\\u2019t be dirtied by my filth.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI am the boss.\\\\u201d She cocks her head. \\\\u201cThis is my store.\\\\u201d Cameron opens his mouth, but to his surprise, can\\\\u2019t find a comeback. She can\\\\u2019t be much older than he is. All he has to his name is a disgusting camper, and she has an entire store. \\\\u201cLook, I know your type.\\\\u201d Her voice has an edge to it now. She folds her arms tightly. \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t know what you\\\\u2019re after, but you played Jess for a favor. I know it.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhy do you care? You two don\\\\u2019t exactly have a neighborly relationship.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI care because I can\\\\u2019t stand players.\\\\u201d Avery scans him up and down. \\\\u201cWho exactly are you, anyway? I\\\\u2019ve never seen you around before.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI was just trying to get that realtor\\\\u2019s help,\\\\u201d Cameron says, then after a pause adds, \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m trying to find my dad.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh.\\\\u201d Avery\\\\u2019s voice softens a tiny bit and her arms relax to her sides, which improves Cameron\\\\u2019s view of her spectacular little chest. She drags in a breath. \\\\u201cSorry. I didn\\\\u2019t mean to come out swinging. My day got off to a cold start.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI know the feeling, believe me.\\\\u201d Cameron smiles, and Avery melts a little more, extending her hand to clasp his as he introduces himself. As he lets go, his goddamn neck lets out another one of its bone-on-bone cracks. Avery winces at the sound. \\\\u201cOuch. You okay?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah, I think so. Slept weird last night.\\\\u201d He regrets the words as soon as they come out. Is this what passes for a pickup line in your thirties? Complaining about back pain? Of course, he doesn\\\\u2019t add that the source of his ailment is the world\\\\u2019s nastiest camper. Warm light streams through the shop\\\\u2019s window as the sun continues to climb the midmorning sky. It occurs to Cameron he should\\\\u2019ve hosed off the mattress this morning before he left; it could\\\\u2019ve dried in the day\\\\u2019s heat. Why do these things never occur to him in the moment? \\\\u201cMessed-up neck, then. I\\\\u2019ve got something for that. Just a sec.\\\\u201d Avery ducks behind the counter and pops up a second later and hands him a small container. It\\\\u2019s some sort of cream, with a bright orange price tag affixed to the lid. $19.95. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s totally natural,\\\\u201d she explains. \\\\u201cI use it whenever a long session on my board leaves me sore.\\\\u201d Cameron feels a single brow inch up. Twenty bucks for organic Vaseline. He forces a weak smile. \\\\u201cThanks, but I\\\\u2019ll pass.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s on the house.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cReally, it\\\\u2019s okay.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWill you just take it?\\\\u201d An actual grin cracks Avery\\\\u2019s face as she thrusts the little pot toward him. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m a sucker for injured creatures.\\\\u201d When Cameron walks out a little while later, his neck is slick with overpriced balm and Avery\\\\u2019s number is programmed in his phone. ETHAN IS SITTING on his front porch when Cameron pulls into the driveway. Cameron heads toward the house, well aware of the cheeseball grin plastered on his face. \\\\u201cSomeone called for you bit ago,\\\\u201d Ethan says. \\\\u201cFrom some airline? Left a number to call back when you got home.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThanks, Ethan.\\\\u201d Cameron\\\\u2019s pulse quickens. His duffel bag. Good thing he added Ethan\\\\u2019s landline to his claim last time he checked the status. His phone battery lasts about two seconds these days. The thought of replacing his phone has been out of the question, but with his jewelry-containing bag on the way and a job, he\\\\u2019ll check out the new model they released this spring, the one with six cameras or whatever. The one that can practically cook dinner for you. Still grinning, he ducks into the camper and dials. \\\\u201cJoyJet baggage services,\\\\u201d a woman answers, sounding anything but joyful. Cameron gives his claim number. \\\\u201cSo, when will my bag be delivered?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOne moment, sir.\\\\u201d She types on a keyboard for what feels like an hour. The keystrokes echo through his phone speaker: click-click-click. Is she writing a novel? Finally, she says, \\\\u201cYes, we did find your lost item.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAwesome. You need my address?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSir, I\\\\u2019m afraid your item is in Naples.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNaples . . . Florida?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNaples, Italy.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cItaly?\\\\u201d Cameron\\\\u2019s voice jumps up an octave. \\\\u201cDoes JoyJet even fly to Italy?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHold on a moment, sir . . . Let me check something.\\\\u201d The woman\\\\u2019s keyboard strokes sound even more aggressive now, somehow. \\\\u201cAh, I see what happened. Somehow, your item was transferred to one of our European partners.\\\\u201d She lets out a low whistle. \\\\u201cWow, that\\\\u2019s pretty awful, even for us.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah, you think?\\\\u201d Cameron fights to keep his voice calm. \\\\u201cSo how do I get it back? There are some . . . things in there that are . . . important.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSir, we advise all passengers to remove any valuables before they check\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBut I didn\\\\u2019t have a choice.\\\\u201d Cameron explodes. \\\\u201cThey made me check my carry-on at the gate, along with a million other people, because your overhead bins are the size of matchboxes. Do the people who design your airplanes have any idea what a typical suitcase looks like?\\\\u201d After a long pause, the agent says, \\\\u201cSir, I\\\\u2019m going to have to transfer you to our European partner\\\\u2019s office, who will assign a new claim number. I can get the paperwork started here, then I\\\\u2019ll patch you over. If I could start with your last name . . .\\\\u201d \\\\n Epitaph and Pens Tova\\\\u2019s day starts early. She has much to accomplish. First, she drives downtown and parks her hatchback, which is no small task because of this enormous ramshackle camper taking up two spaces between the realtor\\\\u2019s office and the paddle shop next door. Blocking the view of oncoming traffic. Not that there\\\\u2019s much oncoming traffic in downtown Sowell Bay at nine in the morning on a Thursday, but one can never be too careful. Shooting one last perturbed glare at the hulking vehicle, she shuffles into her destination. Jessica Snell tilts her head curiously as she comes through the door. \\\\u201cMay I help you, Mrs. Sullivan?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYes, I should say so.\\\\u201d Tova calmly recites the explanation she rehearsed, then leaves the office thirty minutes later with an appointment for the realtor to come for a preliminary walk-though at the house this afternoon. Next, she walks down the block to the bank. The Charter Village application requires a cashier\\\\u2019s check and a copy of her account balances. To make sure she can afford it, Tova supposes. She wishes they would take her word for it that her finances won\\\\u2019t be a problem. Her accounts at Sowell Bay Community Bank have always been robust; the substantial sum she received from her mother\\\\u2019s estate has hardly been touched all these years. Tova has never needed to spend much. As she pulls open the bank door and steps into the lobby, which smells like fresh ink and peppermint candies, as usual, it occurs to her Lars must have used up most of his half of their parent\\\\u2019s inheritance with his stay at Charter Village. When the lawyer followed up about the other assets, it was only a few hundred dollars. Practically speaking, Lars died with only a bathrobe left. For a moment, she hesitates. It really is an extravagant sort of lifestyle they promote at Charter Village. Not her style. But at least it\\\\u2019s clean. And Lars lived there for over a decade. The monthly dues add up. \\\\u201cThank you, Bryan,\\\\u201d she says to the teller, who hands her the check with an ever-so-slightly raised brow. Bryan\\\\u2019s father, Cesar, used to play golf with Will. She wonders whether Bryan will phone him and tell him about today\\\\u2019s transaction. She makes a deliberate decision not to care. Such things are going to happen. People will talk. People in Sowell Bay always talk. Her next stop is Janice Kim\\\\u2019s house. Janice\\\\u2019s son has some fancy computer scanner, and when Tova called this morning to ask if she could stop by and use it, Janice agreed immediately. \\\\u201cYou hanging in there?\\\\u201d Janice lowers her glasses, eyeing Tova\\\\u2019s boot skeptically. Tova isn\\\\u2019t known for requesting spur-of-the-moment visits. \\\\u201cOf course. Why do you ask?\\\\u201d Tova keeps her voice even. The application requires a copy of her driver\\\\u2019s license, but when Tova explains this, she declines to elaborate on the nature of the paperwork. Janice helps her scan the card and shows her which buttons to press on the printer. When they\\\\u2019re finished, she asks, \\\\u201cYou want to stay for coffee?\\\\u201d Tova anticipated this. She built a Janice coffee delay into her schedule. An hour later, after departing the Kim home, Tova drives down to Elland. This would be a quick ten-minute trip if she took the interstate, but as always, Tova takes the back roads. Half an hour later, she arrives at the chain drugstore listed under \\\\u201cPassport Photos\\\\u201d in the Snohomish County phone book. The application requires two such photos, and having never been issued a passport, Tova is in possession of no such thing. A young woman who could not possibly be more bored with her job directs Tova to stand against a blank white wall and instructs her to remove her eyeglasses, which she does without argument, clutching them in her hand and squinting at the camera as it flashes twice. \\\\u201cThat\\\\u2019ll be eighteen fifty,\\\\u201d the clerk says, handing over a small folio with the two square, unsmiling photos tucked inside. \\\\u201cEighteen dollars?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAnd fifty cents.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cGood heavens.\\\\u201d Tova pulls a twenty-dollar bill from her pocketbook. Who would\\\\u2019ve thought two tiny photographs could cost so much? Her final errand brings her back to the northern edge of Sowell Bay, nearly an hour-long journey from Elland, to Fairview Memorial Park. The afternoon has grown lovely, and the gates are propped open like welcoming arms under the clear, cloudless sky. A footpath winds around the cemetery lawn, gentle curves heading this way and that, never a straight line. Like it was designed to make the walk seem as soft as possible. The grass is flawless, edged meticulously around the identical headstones. She kneels on the grass and traces along the engraving on his stone. The smooth, polished rock is warm under her fingers, basking in the hot July sun. WILLIAM PATRICK SULLIVAN: 1938\\\\u20132017. HUSBAND, FATHER, FRIEND. When she\\\\u2019d submitted the epitaph to Fairview Memorial Park\\\\u2019s coordinator, the woman had the nerve to ask if she was sure she didn\\\\u2019t want to add more. The package included up to 120 characters, she explained, and Tova had only used half. But sometimes less is more. Will was a simple man. Next to Will\\\\u2019s headstone is Erik\\\\u2019s. Tova hadn\\\\u2019t wanted one; Will had insisted. It has always bothered her that Erik\\\\u2019s commemoration lies here, in this grassy field, when his body never left the sea. But the stone sits here, with its overly fussy font that reads, ERIK ERNEST SULLIVAN. Whomever Will had designated to take care of it hadn\\\\u2019t even bothered to record Erik\\\\u2019s name correctly. Tova\\\\u2019s maiden name, Lindgren, is supposed to be Erik\\\\u2019s second middle name. She has always fantasized about stealing Erik\\\\u2019s headstone and hurling it off the end of the pier, but one can\\\\u2019t do things like that, of course. The third stone in the row is blank, meant for her. There\\\\u2019s a series of questions on the application about this, too. Wishes, preferences. Meant to be a supplement to one\\\\u2019s legal arrangements, Tova supposes. She has made her preferences clear in her own documents, of course, but what if someone tries to insist on a service? She could see Barb, in particular, doing something like that. Tova must broach the topic with her before she leaves. A marker will be fine, but she prefers no service. Voices drift across the lawn. She turns to see old Mrs. Kretch ambling up the path. Heavens, the woman must be in her midnineties. But she\\\\u2019s getting around well, by the looks of it. She\\\\u2019s brought her great-granddaughter with her today, a coltish thing with legs as long and straight as a pair of knitting needles. \\\\u201cHi, Mrs. Sullivan,\\\\u201d the great-granddaughter says as they pass. Old Mrs. Kretch nods, her eyes meeting Tova\\\\u2019s just long enough to impart a pitying look. \\\\u201cGood day,\\\\u201d Tova replies. The great-granddaughter has a basket slung over her skinny arm. They stop six plots down and spread out a picnic. Tova catches a whiff of deli chicken as they settle in. Then the two women chat with their dead patriarch, showing no self-consciousness about talking to the manicured turf, the cold gray headstone. A one-way conversation with thin air itself. Tova has never spoken aloud to Will\\\\u2019s grave. Why would she? His tired, sickened body turning to dust underground cannot hear. Cancerous flesh cannot reply. She cannot bring herself to emulate Mary Ann Minetti, who keeps her husband\\\\u2019s ashes in an urn on her mantel and converses with him daily. He can hear me from heaven, Mary Ann always says, to which Tova simply nods, because it brings her friend comfort and harms no one. Such is the case with the Kretches, as well. So why must the sight of them bantering with the deceased as though he were seated on their red-and-white checkered blanket, sipping lemonade right along with them, make her wish she were invisible? But there\\\\u2019s a first time for everything. The Kretch ladies eventually rise, and the great-granddaughter gives a tired wave as they make their way out, their afternoon shadows grown long and tall. Tova ought to get it over with, the thing she came here to do. She homes her focus on Will\\\\u2019s headstone, runs a tongue across her lips. Then in a low voice, she says aloud, \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m selling the house, dear.\\\\u201d She trails a finger across the headstone as if the action might summon tears to her eyes. THAT EVENING, AFTER Jessica Snell\\\\u2019s tour, and after a reheated casserole supper, she organizes the application and her collected documents. Ten minutes later, she\\\\u2019s driving again. The very first line of instructions had stymied her. Please complete in black ink. So, one more errand today, to purchase a proper black pen. After trying out all of her writing utensils, she determined that none of them contained truly black ink. A scrupulous eye could only conclude that the most promising samples were actually dark gray. \\\\u201cTova! Evening, love,\\\\u201d Ethan Mack calls from the Shop-Way deli, where he\\\\u2019s wiping down tables. \\\\u201cHello, Ethan.\\\\u201d Right up at the front of the grocery section, there\\\\u2019s a display of sundries, including pens. She scans the options: Rollerball or felt-tip? Gel or ballpoint? Ethan tucks his rag in his apron pocket and saunters over, slipping into his station behind the register. \\\\u201cHow\\\\u2019s the bum leg holding up, then?\\\\u201d Tova leans on her cane. Her one concession. \\\\u201cHealing as expected, thank you.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cGlad to hear it! Modern medicine is brilliant, innit? Can you imagine livin\\\\u2019 in cave-people times? You tweak an ankle and they leave you behind for the dinosaurs to eat!\\\\u201d Tova raises an eyebrow. He can\\\\u2019t be serious. Dinosaurs never lived concurrently with so-called cave-people, or any people at all. They were separated by sixty-five million years. But then, maybe Ethan never had occasion to learn this. Tova, like every mother of a little boy, had gotten a thorough education in dinosaurs when Erik was young. At one point he\\\\u2019d checked out so many dinosaur books the library put a hold on Tova\\\\u2019s card. Ethan shuffles, looking sheepish. \\\\u201cAnyway. Help you find something?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI need a black pen.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cA pen? I won\\\\u2019t let you pay for a bloody pen! Here.\\\\u201d He plucks one from behind his ear, where it must have been hiding in his bushy mass of reddish frizz. \\\\u201cDon\\\\u2019t remember if this one\\\\u2019s blue or black, though.\\\\u201d He tries to wake the ink, scribbling on a scrap of paper next to the cash register. The tip of his tongue peeks between his lips as he focuses. \\\\u201cThank you, but I\\\\u2019ll take these. And I\\\\u2019m happy to pay for them.\\\\u201d Tova puts a two-pack of classic ballpoints on the counter. Ethan\\\\u2019s pen starts to cooperate, producing a mess of marks on the scrap. \\\\u201cEh! This one\\\\u2019s blue anyway. But you\\\\u2019re welcome to have it as a backup. Can never have too many pens!\\\\u201d He offers it to her. Tova chuckles. \\\\u201cI beg to differ! Before he passed, Will used to swipe them from restaurants and bank counters. Our junk drawer was always overrun with them.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAye, doesn\\\\u2019t surprise me. Think I might\\\\u2019ve looked the other way while he walked off with a ballpoint or two from the deli, over the years. He used to come here and have a sandwich and read a book a couple of times a week, but I\\\\u2019m sure you know that.\\\\u201d The smile on Tova\\\\u2019s face hangs there, for a long moment, like it\\\\u2019s unsure whether to fall off or not. Finally, she says warmly, \\\\u201cYes, he did like to get out of the house. Thank you for not calling the authorities on account of the pens.\\\\u201d Ethan bats a hand. \\\\u201cHe was a good bloke, Will Sullivan.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYes, he was.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, then.\\\\u201d Something in Ethan\\\\u2019s voice reminds Tova of a souffl\\\\u00e9 that\\\\u2019s begun to sink. \\\\u201cGuess you definitely don\\\\u2019t need this.\\\\u201d He tucks the pen he\\\\u2019d offered her into his apron pocket. \\\\u201cIt was a very kind offer. But the form states specifically to use black ink.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cA form?\\\\u201d Ethan blanches, his tone now wary. \\\\u201cWhat form is that, love?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAn application,\\\\u201d she answers evenly. \\\\u201cI knew it!\\\\u201d Ethan\\\\u2019s jaw flaps. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re doing it. Moving up to that . . . home. Tova, love. That place! It\\\\u2019s . . . not you.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI beg your pardon?\\\\u201d Ethan sniffs. \\\\u201cWhat I mean is, it\\\\u2019s not good enough for you.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cCharter Village is one of the finest facilities in the state.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBut Sowell Bay is your home.\\\\u201d To Tova\\\\u2019s horror, her eyes well, stinging. She sets her jaw, willing the tears away. Evenly, she explains, \\\\u201cMr. Mack, I am a practical person, and this is a practical solution. I\\\\u2019m not a young woman. I\\\\u2019m, well . . .\\\\u201d Her gaze drifts to the boot. Ethan\\\\u2019s follows, and Tova would swear that, under his big beard, his chin is trembling. She places a hand on his freckled forearm, the wiry hairs tickling her palm. His skin is surprisingly warm. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m not moving right this minute, Ethan.\\\\u201d Technically, this is true. It will take some time for the house to sell. For Charter Village to review her bank statements, eighteen-dollar photos, and black-ink-printed forms. \\\\u201cAye\\\\u201d is all Ethan says. \\\\u201cAnd it\\\\u2019s the right plan,\\\\u201d she adds. \\\\u201cWho else will take care of me?\\\\u201d The question hangs in the air for a long moment. Finally, Ethan says, \\\\u201cWell, this is an important application. You don\\\\u2019t want those pens, then.\\\\u201d He nods at the two-pack. \\\\u201cThose are rubbish.\\\\u201d After running a searching finger along the display, he pulls off a different package, this one with a flashier logo. \\\\u201cCadillac model, right here.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ll take it, then. Thank you.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAnytime, love.\\\\u201d She clears her throat. \\\\u201cHow much?\\\\u201d He bats a hand. \\\\u201cLike I said. Won\\\\u2019t let you pay for a pen. It\\\\u2019s on the house.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNo, no.\\\\u201d For the second time today, Tova removes a twenty from her pocketbook. \\\\u201cRing them through later and you keep the rest. For making the recommendation. Thank you.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIf you want to thank me,\\\\u201d Ethan blurts, \\\\u201cperhaps you\\\\u2019d join me for tea sometime.\\\\u201d Tova freezes. \\\\u201cTea? Here?\\\\u201d She glances at the deli. \\\\u201cWell, no, not here. The tea here is shit, to be honest. But it could be here, if you\\\\u2019d like. I hadn\\\\u2019t actually worked that part out yet.\\\\u201d Ethan bites his lower lip and drums his meaty fingers on the register. \\\\u201cSomewhere else, then? Or not at all, perhaps. Never mind. Rubbish idea.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt wasn\\\\u2019t a rubbish idea.\\\\u201d Tova is astonished to hear the colloquialism come out of her mouth. Is this how Janice picks up her sitcom talk? Before she can stop herself, she finds herself replying, \\\\u201cCertainly, we can have tea sometime. Or coffee, perhaps.\\\\u201d Ethan shakes his head. \\\\u201cYou Swedes and your coffee.\\\\u201d Tova feels herself flush, wondering if she ought to make a joke about him being a Scot, but before she can come up with one, he hands her a scrap of paper, the same one that he scribbled on. In blue ink on the back, he\\\\u2019s written his telephone number. \\\\u201cGive me a ring, love. We\\\\u2019ll set something up. Before you . . . go.\\\\u201d Tova nods, then ducks out of the Shop-Way, astounded at how difficult it\\\\u2019s suddenly become to breathe normally. IT\\\\u2019S PAST TEN now, and daylight has finally drained from the sky. On her way home, Tova makes an unplanned turn. One more errand today. The aquarium\\\\u2019s parking lot is empty, except for a dilapidated camper, the same one that was parked in front of Jessica Snell\\\\u2019s office earlier. Perhaps the owner is a fisherman. She scans the pier, looking for a figure with a pole, but it\\\\u2019s empty. Hobbling up to the front door, she pauses. Terry had forbidden her from coming to clean, naturally, but he hadn\\\\u2019t expressly instructed her not to use her key for a social call. In fact, when she\\\\u2019d tried to give the key back, he\\\\u2019d insisted she hang on to it, which she\\\\u2019d taken not only as an affirmation of her trustworthiness but also as a vow of confidence in her resilience. You\\\\u2019ll be back before you know it, Terry had said. The same force that drew her to Will\\\\u2019s headstone earlier today has led her here. To . . . communicate. To notify the octopus of her plan to move to Charter Village. Although neither Will nor Marcellus the Octopus can understand her, both deserve to know. And, less urgently, he might lead her to a solution for this mess she\\\\u2019s gotten herself into with Ethan Mack and his tea. Unless she ought to keep that to herself; perhaps if she pretends it never happened, the invitation will simply vanish? She can practically see how Marcellus\\\\u2019s shrewd, knowing eye will glare, how his sucker-lined arm will waggle, scolding. Tova clicks her tongue at her own behavior. Pretending to speak with the insentient. She\\\\u2019s ten times worse than Mary Ann Minetti and old Mrs. Kretch put together. The door clinks open. Everything else aside, she must admit she\\\\u2019s curious about how the place has fared, hygienically speaking, in her absence. She holds her breath, ready for sloppy tile and smudged glass, but to her shock, things look decent. This fellow Terry brought on to fill in is managing well. This begets a small corollary disappointment, the dull realization that she is not indispensable. But overall, this is a good development. More than once, the thought of the aquarium being cleaned in a subpar manner has given her pause about her plans to leave. Perhaps this new fellow can stay on after Tova\\\\u2019s departure. Heading around the hallway toward the octopus\\\\u2019s tank, she moves as discreetly as she can with this wretched boot. Which is unnecessary, because she\\\\u2019s the only human here. Whispered greetings to her old friends, the Japanese crabs, the wolf eels, the jellies, and the sea cucumbers, linger for a moment in the dark corridor then vanish into the bluish-green air like wisps of smoke. Even if they could, these creatures would never tell anyone she was here. It\\\\u2019ll be their secret. She passes the sea lion statue and, as always, pauses to stroke its head, reveling in the fleeting illusion of her son flickering within her when she touches something he so adored. Approaching the entrance to the back of the octopus enclosure, Tova frowns. A fluorescent glow seeps from under the door. Someone has left the light on. Then a terrible clatter erupts inside. \\\\n Conscience Does Make Cowards of Us All Cameron blinks. Wincing, he rubs his temple, which is throbbing where it must\\\\u2019ve smacked into the table as he fell. He wipes the smear of blood on his shirt and gives the busted stepladder a vengeful kick. If he wanted to, he could probably sue the balls off of this place. Poorly maintained equipment. A workplace injury. But what if someone asks him to explain what he was doing back here in the first place? \\\\u201cYou,\\\\u201d he says, glaring at the creature as he stands. The thing hasn\\\\u2019t moved. It\\\\u2019s hunkered like some overgrown tarantula, having burrowed in the clutter of tubes and jars and pump parts in the deepest corner of the shelf above the tanks. It scrambled up there, somehow, as Cameron tried to corral it with a broom handle, which he now jabs toward the creature again. \\\\u201cWhat\\\\u2019s your problem, bro? I\\\\u2019m trying to help you.\\\\u201d Its massive body heaves, like a sigh. At least it\\\\u2019s still alive, but probably not for much longer. An octopus can survive briefly out of water (there was a documentary once, on some nature channel), but this one has been on shore leave for almost twenty minutes, and that\\\\u2019s just counting from the time Cameron discovered it trying to slip out the back door he\\\\u2019d left propped open. Someone could\\\\u2019ve warned him the exhibits might escape. Like, how is this even a possibility? Secure tanks should be a reasonable expectation in a tourist aquarium. Honestly, the situation is making him uneasy about those sharks circling the big tank in the middle, especially now that his head is bleeding. Can sharks smell through glass? \\\\u201cCome on, buddy,\\\\u201d he begs. Head still throbbing, he adjusts the gloves he put on after the thing tried to strangle his wrist and inches the broom handle closer. Expecting the octopus to . . . what, exactly? Slide down it like a fireman\\\\u2019s pole? But he can\\\\u2019t let the stubborn asshole just die up there, and there\\\\u2019s no way he\\\\u2019s touching it again, even with gloves. It looks like it wants to kill him. \\\\u201cOutta there, now. Back to your tank.\\\\u201d A tentacle tip twitches, defiant, dislodging a pair of thin metal canisters and knocking them to the ground. They land with twin clangs. This is going to be what gets Cameron fired. How many times can one person get canned in a lifetime? There should be a legal limit. Something clicks softly behind him. Then a woman\\\\u2019s voice, trembling but clear. \\\\u201cHello? Who\\\\u2019s in here?\\\\u201d Nearly dropping the broomstick, he turns. A tiny woman stands in the doorway. Miniature, almost: she can\\\\u2019t be more than five feet tall. She\\\\u2019s older, maybe a little older than Aunt Jeanne, maybe late-sixties or seventy. She\\\\u2019s wearing a purple blouse, and her left ankle is swallowed in a walking cast. \\\\u201cOh! Um . . . hi. I was just\\\\u2014\\\\u201d The lady\\\\u2019s sharp gasp cuts him off. She has spotted the creature cowered on the high shelf. Cameron twists his hands. \\\\u201cYeah, so I was just trying to\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOut of the way, dear.\\\\u201d She pushes past him. Her voice is low and quiet now, any trepidation gone. Moving faster than he would\\\\u2019ve guessed possible, given her age and that boot, she\\\\u2019s across the room in three strides, where she regards the broken stool for a moment and shakes her head. Then, unbelievably, she scrambles to the top of the table. Standing at her full height up there, she\\\\u2019s almost face level with the octopus. \\\\u201cMarcellus, it\\\\u2019s me.\\\\u201d The octopus shifts slightly out of its corner and peers at her, blinking its creepy eye. Who is this lady? And how did she get in here, anyway? She nods, encouraging. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s okay.\\\\u201d She holds out her hand, and to Cameron\\\\u2019s shock the creature extends one of its arms and winds it around her wrist. She repeats, \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s okay. I\\\\u2019m going to help you down now, all right?\\\\u201d The octopus nods. Wait, no. It did not. Did it? He rubs his eyes. Are they pumping hallucinogens through the ductwork here? That would explain so much about tonight. Tethered to the tiny woman\\\\u2019s arm, the octopus makes its way along the shelf. The woman limps along the length of the table, coaxing. Once she gets the thing directly over the empty tank, she nods at Cameron. \\\\u201cMove the cover, please, won\\\\u2019t you?\\\\u201d He obeys, sliding the lid back and holding it open as wide as it will go. \\\\u201cIn you go,\\\\u201d the woman whispers. Cold, briny water sloshes as the creature drops back in with a heavy plop. Reflexively, Cameron shudders away, and when he turns back, the octopus is gone again, leaving only a stir of rocks outside its den at the tank bottom. The table creaks as the woman lowers herself. Cameron rushes over, clasping her elbow and guiding her back to the ground. \\\\u201cThank you.\\\\u201d She dusts her hands, then adjusts her glasses and sizes him up. \\\\u201cAre you hurt, dear? That cut could use some help.\\\\u201d She shuffles over and picks up the purse she dropped on her way in, then roots around for a minute before offering him a Band-Aid. Cameron waves her off. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s nothing.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNonsense. Take it,\\\\u201d she insists. Her voice is nonnegotiable. He takes the bandage, unwraps it, and fixes the neon pink strip to the side of his head. What a look. Oh well, it\\\\u2019s not like he\\\\u2019ll see anyone but Ethan tonight anyway. \\\\u201cGood.\\\\u201d She nods. Then, with her voice level, she says, \\\\u201cWell, that\\\\u2019s over. Perhaps you can explain what happened here?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI didn\\\\u2019t do anything!\\\\u201d Cameron jabs a finger at the tank. \\\\u201cThat thing escaped. I tried to get it back in the water.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHis name is Marcellus.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOkay. Marcellus tried to pull a fast one. I was trying to help.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBy assaulting him with a broomstick?\\\\u201d He scoffs. \\\\u201cWe can\\\\u2019t all be the Octopus Whisperer, or whatever the hell that was. Look, I was doing my best. If it weren\\\\u2019t for me, that octopus would be halfway across the ocean by now.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat do you mean?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI mean that when I found him, he was on his way out the back door.\\\\u201d The old lady\\\\u2019s mouth drops open. \\\\u201cGood heavens.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah.\\\\u201d Maybe they won\\\\u2019t fire him. Maybe they\\\\u2019ll give him a raise. If it weren\\\\u2019t for him, they\\\\u2019d be replacing their octopus, after all. How much does a giant Pacific octopus cost? They\\\\u2019re probably not cheap. The old lady\\\\u2019s tone sharpens when she says, \\\\u201cWhy was the back door open?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBecause I was emptying the trash? You know, doing my job? No one told me not to prop it.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI see.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBut I\\\\u2019ll keep it closed from now on.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYes, wise idea.\\\\u201d At these last words of hers, Cameron finds himself standing straighter. Why does it feel like she\\\\u2019s his boss? And what is she doing here? He\\\\u2019d better clear that up. The last thing he needs is Terry accusing him of letting some random old woman into the building during his shift. He looks her over again. She can\\\\u2019t weigh more than eighty pounds. An unlikely burglar. Besides, she and that octopus have history. Maybe she\\\\u2019s a retired marine biologist. Or a volunteer. Senior citizen outreach. \\\\u201cCan I ask what you\\\\u2019re doing here?\\\\u201d He tries to frame the question as politely as possible. \\\\u201cI mean, you seem nice, but no one else is supposed to be here, at least not that they told me.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cGoodness. Of course. I\\\\u2019m sure I did give you a startle. I\\\\u2019m sorry. I\\\\u2019m Tova Sullivan, the cleaner.\\\\u201d A tight smile binds her thin lips as she gestures at the boot. \\\\u201cInjured cleaner.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh. Nice to meet you\\\\u201d is what he says, but what he\\\\u2019s thinking is Damn. This frail little woman does the same job he can barely get through without feeling like he just ran a marathon? It\\\\u2019s been two weeks and his feet are still sore after every shift. He adds, \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m Cameron Cassmore, current cleaner. Or temporary cleaner, technically. I\\\\u2019m sorry about your injury. When he hired me, Terry said he thought you\\\\u2019d be out a few weeks.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m quite all right. It was a silly accident.\\\\u201d Tova\\\\u2019s eyes make the tiniest flick toward the busted stool. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m glad Terry found you, Cameron. From what I\\\\u2019ve seen, your skill is adequate. As it turns out, for unrelated reasons, I may be away from my position longer than anticipated. This will be a good solution, perhaps.\\\\u201d Cameron pauses, digesting this. An extended gig here wouldn\\\\u2019t be the end of the world. Two weeks and he\\\\u2019s no closer to finding Simon Brinks than he was when he got here. The contact info Jessica Snell had given him must have been dated; when Cameron called, the number was disconnected. \\\\u201cYeah, that would be cool. It\\\\u2019s not a bad job.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s a lovely job.\\\\u201d Tova smiles, but it\\\\u2019s tight, like it\\\\u2019s holding back sadness. Okay, so she\\\\u2019s nice, but who in their right mind loves mopping tile and scrubbing floors this much? He shuffles his feet. \\\\u201cSo . . . do you just, like, stop by for fun sometimes?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI came to see Marcellus.\\\\u201d Her voice drops. \\\\u201cAnd I\\\\u2019m aware this may be improper to ask given that we\\\\u2019re barely acquainted, but I would appreciate your discretion.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhy?\\\\u201d Shit. This\\\\u2019ll get him in trouble with Terry after all. Tova takes a deep breath. \\\\u201cMind you, I don\\\\u2019t condone lying. But you see, Marcellus is a bit of a wayfarer at night, although until this evening I was not aware of his predilection to depart the building.\\\\u201d She frowns. \\\\u201cThat part is new and troubling. But I\\\\u2019ve known of his wanderings for some time. He is remarkably adept at escaping his enclosure.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAnd no one else knows.\\\\u201d Cameron nods, starting to understand. \\\\u201cNot with certainty, no. Terry suspects. If he knew for sure, he would certainly intervene.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cLike, he\\\\u2019d nail down the top of the tank?\\\\u201d Tova nods. \\\\u201cMarcellus would be devastated. But what concerns me is worse. Marcellus is old, Cameron, and a loose octopus is a liability.\\\\u201d Is she really suggesting what he\\\\u2019s thinking? Terry, the fish geek, would put one of his animals down? Harsh. But what if it got out during the day and went after some kid on a field trip? The woman\\\\u2019s probably right about the liability. He folds his arms. \\\\u201cMarcellus is your friend.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYes, I suppose he is.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhen you went up there to save him, you weren\\\\u2019t afraid of him at all.\\\\u201d Tova clicks her tongue. \\\\u201cCertainly not! He\\\\u2019s gentle.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, it was still pretty badass.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI appreciate you saying so.\\\\u201d She looks at the ground briefly, then back up at him with her eyes, which are a shrewd shade of greenish gray. \\\\u201cSo? Shall it be our secret?\\\\u201d Cameron hesitates. For sure, if Terry finds him acting as an accomplice to . . . whatever all of this is, this job will be toast, and any hope of paying Aunt Jeanne back will be toast right along with it. And tracking down Simon Brinks? Toast city. He can\\\\u2019t get fired. Not this time. But something about the thought of this sweet little old lady losing her friend makes him feel horrible. And the way that octopus had glared at him with its weird, humanlike eye, the threat of euthanasia . . . He shrugs. \\\\u201cYeah, our secret.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThank you.\\\\u201d She inclines her head. Cameron picks up the broomstick from where he dropped it earlier and shoves the broken step stool against the wall for someone else to fix. \\\\u201cConscience does make cowards of us all, huh?\\\\u201d She freezes. \\\\u201cWhat did you say?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cConscience does make cowards of us all.\\\\u201d He feels himself start to redden. How does he always manage to drop this nerdy shit into conversation? He starts to explain, \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s just some dumb Shakespeare quote. It\\\\u2019s from\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHamlet,\\\\u201d she says softly. \\\\u201cIt was one of my son\\\\u2019s favorites.\\\\u201d \\\\n Expect the Unexpected Tova\\\\u2019s recollection of her voyage from Sweden is patchy. After all, she was only seven years old at the time, and Lars only nine. A train ride from Uppsala, a stiff goodbye to their father at their hotel in Gothenburg; he flew to America on an airplane, arriving several weeks ahead of the family in order to secure their paperwork and housing. The hotel had thick white sheets smelling of lavender and a television on a table, which Tova and Lars watched for several hours a day while they awaited their embarkment date, and there was a restaurant in the lobby that served chocolate pudding in tiny goblets, of which Lars once ate so many he got a stomachache and upchucked on the white sheets. She recalls how the SS Vadstena looked like a big gray layer cake alongside the dock when the driver dropped them off, that bright May morning in 1956. Two months later, they arrived in Portland, Maine, where they lived in an apartment for two years before uprooting again and relocating here, to Washington, to Sowell Bay, ostensibly to be closer to a handful of distant cousins, although Tova never met any of these supposed kin. It was always just the four of them. Those weeks on the ocean liner are largely a blank space in Tova\\\\u2019s mind, which is a shame, as it\\\\u2019s probably the most adventurous thing she\\\\u2019ll ever do. Among her few clear memories from aboard the SS Vadstena is the Walrus. That wasn\\\\u2019t really his name, of course, but that\\\\u2019s what Tova and Lars called that passenger, with his long, gray, whiskery mustache dangling around each corner of his mouth like a set of tusks. The Walrus liked to play cards. After dinner in the parlor, while Lars lined up his toy soldiers along the red velvet booth-backs, the Walrus tried to coax Tova and her mother into playing gin rummy. At first, Mama said ladies ought not to partake in card games, but eventually she relented. By the dim light of the glass lamps, Tova learned to play rummy and hearts and twenty-one. Sometimes, with a sly wink, the Walrus would slip in a card trick as he shuffled, daring her to guess what card he held between his fingers, then flipping it around to prove her wrong before producing the very one she\\\\u2019d named from under his collar or beneath his cuff. Always expect the unexpected, child, the Walrus would say, chuckling as little Tova scowled at being fooled yet again. She feels a scowl cross her face now, watching this young fellow pick up a pair of fallen canisters and return them to the shelf, not seeming to care that he\\\\u2019s placed them upside down. For the last two weeks, Barb Vanderhoof and Ethan Mack and their ilk have been churning the rumor mill with their talk of the fellow from California, the homeless man, who has taken her place. But Cameron has clean fingernails and nice, white teeth. And he\\\\u2019s well versed in the works of Shakespeare, apparently. He has promised to keep her secret, and for some reason she can\\\\u2019t quite identify, she likes him. She might even trust him. He is not what she expected. In the humidity of the pump room, the pink bandage is already starting to peel back, and now it sits askew on his damp temple. Tova resists a deep urge to reach up and press it back on with her thumb. When he notices her watching him, he flashes a sheepish grin. \\\\u201cSorry, I swear I don\\\\u2019t usually go around quoting dead bards. It\\\\u2019s been a weird night.\\\\u201d He blinks, as if wondering if any of this is actually happening, a feeling Tova can very much relate to. She peers past Cameron into Marcellus\\\\u2019s tank, where the surface of the water shimmers gently around the pump\\\\u2014no sign of the octopus himself. What would have happened if she hadn\\\\u2019t arrived? \\\\u201cI should say it has.\\\\u201d She clears her throat and straightens. \\\\u201cIn any case. How are you finding the conditions here? Did Terry train you? And do you need . . . supplies?\\\\u201d The acrid smell of that caustic green junk has already started to seep in. The jug of vinegar in her trunk could fix this. \\\\u201cI mean, yeah? Dragging a mop across the floor isn\\\\u2019t exactly rocket science.\\\\u201d Tova clicks her tongue. \\\\u201cPerhaps not, but there is a proper way to do things.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAm I doing something . . . improperly?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, let\\\\u2019s have a look. Come along, dear.\\\\u201d Tova opens the door and motions to Cameron to follow her into the curved hallway. The floors, as she\\\\u2019d noted on her way in, look decent, but linty streaks run along the glass fronts of the tanks. Tova runs a finger through one. \\\\u201cYou must use a cotton cloth on the glass. Not polyester.\\\\u201d Cameron folds his arms defensively. \\\\u201cIt looks fine to me.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou must look more carefully, then.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat are you, some expert on glass cleaning?\\\\u201d Tova tuts. \\\\u201cDecades of experience.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, no one said anything about polyester or cotton or whatever,\\\\u201d Cameron says with a huff. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m using the rags that were here. How was I supposed to know?\\\\u201d He has a point. Tova will need to speak with Terry about training if the boy might be her permanent replacement. She makes her way over to one of the garbage bins and points to the rim. \\\\u201cAlso, see this here? The bag must hook all the way around, or else it slips off when the can becomes full. Then trash will fall directly into the bottom and make an even bigger mess.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh, please. I know how to put a bag in a garbage can.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cClearly, you do not.\\\\u201d Tova\\\\u2019s tone sharpens. \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t know how they install trash liners down in California, but\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWait, what?\\\\u201d Cameron interrupts. \\\\u201cHow did you know I was from California?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cPeople in Sowell Bay like to talk.\\\\u201d Tova flattens her lips. She wishes she could take the comment back. How often has she, herself, been the subject of town gossip? \\\\u201cYeah, I\\\\u2019ve noticed.\\\\u201d Cameron pauses, and something glints in his eyes. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m sure the rumor mill would have a feast, hearing about you being here tonight. Visiting an octopus.\\\\u201d Tova\\\\u2019s mouth pops open, then she quickly presses her lips together again. \\\\u201cDon\\\\u2019t worry, I won\\\\u2019t tell anyone. I promised,\\\\u201d he mutters. She continues to regard him through narrowed eyes when he continues, \\\\u201cAny other thrilling job tips for me?\\\\u201d Tova straightens. \\\\u201cYes, one more thing. The matter of the door. I think you\\\\u2019ll agree, nearly allowing one of the aquarium\\\\u2019s most popular exhibits to wander out is hardly acceptable.\\\\u201d Cameron lets out a beleaguered sigh as his eyeballs flick momentarily, almost imperceptibly, upward. The gesture unravels a thread somewhere in the depths of Tova\\\\u2019s memory; it\\\\u2019s almost exactly what teenage Erik used to do when he was annoyed with her. She clicks her tongue again. Young people. Although this one must be at least twenty-five, from the looks of him, Tova has the distinct impression he has some growing up to do. \\\\u201cHow could anyone think that was my fault?\\\\u201d Cameron\\\\u2019s voice bursts out. \\\\u201cMaybe someone could have given me a heads-up on the possibility of free-range kraken? And maybe they should put a lock on his tank.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cMarcellus can undo locks,\\\\u201d Tova points out. \\\\u201cHow do you think he left the pump room?\\\\u201d The boy frowns. He doesn\\\\u2019t have a comeback for that. Instead, he asks, \\\\u201cWhy does he do it?\\\\u201d Tova pauses, considering this. It\\\\u2019s a question she\\\\u2019s asked herself many times, and one for which she doesn\\\\u2019t have a clear answer. She goes with her best guess. \\\\u201cI believe he is bored.\\\\u201d Cameron shrugs. \\\\u201cI guess it would suck to spend your whole life living in a tiny little tank.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYes,\\\\u201d Tova agrees. \\\\u201cEspecially when you\\\\u2019re so smart.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cMarcellus is very bright.\\\\u201d Panic flashes in Cameron\\\\u2019s eyes. \\\\u201cWhat am I supposed to do if it happens again? If he gets out, I mean. While I\\\\u2019m here cleaning.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cLeave him alone, of course,\\\\u201d Tova says, because what other response can there be? It won\\\\u2019t do to have the boy wielding a broomstick at the octopus. \\\\u201cRight. Leave him alone.\\\\u201d Cameron casts a leery look down the hallway, as if Marcellus might be lurking there. But something nags at Tova. If she\\\\u2019d left the octopus alone when she discovered him under the table in the break room, hopelessly tangled up in electrical cords, what would have become of him? Until tonight\\\\u2019s attempt to leave the building, she would\\\\u2019ve thought Marcellus had enough common sense to avoid such bold stunts, to keep his nightly hijinks to his usual: teasing the seahorses, poking around in the sea cucumber tank for a midnight snack. A sudden dread seeps through her at the thought of Marcellus dying alone, a vague shame at her own inability to prevent it, even if she were working here as normal. After all, he could break out of his enclosure at any hour of the night and find himself in danger in the empty building. Perhaps letting Marcellus escape the building would be merciful. He could pay Erik a visit, down so deep, on the floor of Puget Sound. The thought feels wildly inappropriate. She can\\\\u2019t help but smile. The boy tilts his head at her. \\\\u201cWhat\\\\u2019s so funny?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s nothing.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cCome on, Tova. Share with the class.\\\\u201d A tiny sparkle flicks through Cameron\\\\u2019s eyes, good-natured teasing. \\\\u201cTruly, it was nothing.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNothing is nothing!\\\\u201d Cameron grins at her. He really is a charming young man when he\\\\u2019s not being so insolent. Erik was like that, too; she and Will used to throw their arms up at his attitude, but he was so effortlessly endearing, the kind of person everyone wants to befriend. An idea springs to her mind. \\\\u201cFollow me,\\\\u201d she beckons, shuffling back toward the pump room. \\\\u201cI have a plan.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cA plan? For what?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cFor next time you encounter Marcellus outside his tank.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI thought you said I should leave him alone.\\\\u201d Cameron trots along behind her. \\\\u201cAre you going to show me how to capture him?\\\\u201d She turns back to him. \\\\u201cNot exactly. I\\\\u2019m going to show you how to make friends with him.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cFriends?\\\\u201d Cameron stops in his tracks. \\\\u201cSeems like a long shot. Scylla the sea monster wasn\\\\u2019t exactly warm and fuzzy with me during our little hangout earlier.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cExpect the unexpected, dear.\\\\u201d Tova smiles. \\\\n Day 1,329 of My Captivity MUCH OF HUMAN PARLANCE IS NONSENSE, BUT PERHAPS most ludicrous among the rubbish they spew is their tendency to glorify their own foolishness. By this, I mean absurd statements such as: What he doesn\\\\u2019t know won\\\\u2019t hurt him! Or, worse: Ignorance is bliss! You may object to my rumination on the topic of bliss, considering I am imprisoned in this dreadful place. What would a captive cephalopod know of joy? I will never again know the thrill of a wild hunt in the open sea. I will never bask in a silver shimmer of moonlight as it filters down through the water from an endless midnight sky. I will never copulate. But I have knowledge. To the extent happiness is possible for a creature like me, it lies in knowledge. As you already know, I am adept at learning. I have easily solved every puzzle or brainteaser Terry has provided: the locked box with a scallop inside, the small plastic maze with a mussel at the finish. Child\\\\u2019s play, as the humans might say. Then I learned to pop the top of my tank, and how to unlock the pump room door. I learned how to calculate precisely how far I may venture, and for how long, before I begin to suffer The Consequences. It may not be bliss, if such a thing even exists, but with this knowledge, I have achieved something akin to contentment. Or, perhaps more accurately, a temporary abatement of misery. Ah, to be a human, for whom bliss can be achieved by mere ignorance! Here, in the kingdom of animals, ignorance is dangerous. The poor herring dropped into the tank lacks any awareness of the shark lurking below. Ask the herring whether what he doesn\\\\u2019t know can hurt him. But humans can be wounded by their own oblivion, too. They do not see it, but I do. It happens all the time. Consider, for example, a father and son I witnessed recently, right here in front of my tank. He claps the adolescent on the back as they talk of an upcoming sports match. The father is certain the son will prevail, telling the young one, You\\\\u2019ve got my throwing arm, and I was an all-state quarterback. I do not know what a quarterback is, but I can tell you this: the boy has no genetic relationship with the man. The father is a cuckold. One of my favorite human words, I must admit. Moments later, the child\\\\u2019s mother joins them, and the three of them shuffle along to stare at the sharp-nosed sculpin exhibit next door, unaware of the treason that will one day cleave their family. You ask, how do I know? I observe. I am very perceptive, perhaps beyond the bounds of your comprehension. Thousands of genes mold an offspring\\\\u2019s physical presentation, and many of these pathways are as clear to me as letters on a page are to you. For one thousand, three hundred and twenty-nine days of this wretched captivity, I have honed my observations. In that particular case of the sporting son and his quarterback-cuckold guardian, the list of traits would be too long to name here, but: the shape of the nose, the shade of the eyes, the precise position of the earlobe. The inflection of the voice, the gait. Ah, the gait! That is always an easy tell. Humans walk alike (or, in this case, unalike) far more than they realize. But the former cleaning woman and her replacement. They walk alike. There is also the heart-shaped dimple that sits, unusually low for such a feature, on each of their left cheeks. And the greenish golden flecks in each of their eyes. The toneless manner in which they both hum while they mop (quite annoying, to be honest, although the whir of my pump muffles it, mercifully). Circumstantial, you say with a dismissive wave. Coincidental. Heredity works in strange ways. You point to the doppelg\\\\u00e4nger phenomenon; nearly identical humans of no relation born on opposite sides of the world. You know, as do I, that the woman has no surviving heir. You know her only child died thirty years ago. You know, too, of her grief. Grief that has molded her life. Grief that, for the time being, drives her into seclusion. Eventually, I fear, it may drive her to something worse. Your skepticism is understandable. It appears to defy logic. I could go on with more evidence, although now, I must rest. These communications exhaust me, and this one is getting very long. But you would do well to believe me when I tell you this: the young male who has recently taken over sanitation duties is a direct descendant of the cleaning woman with the injured foot. \\\\n Hard Left, Cut Right One morning in late July, Cameron finally lands a promising clue. Elusive real estate tycoon Simon Brinks spends summer weekends at his estate in the San Juan Islands, a lavish Tuscan-style villa tucked up on a cliff overlooking some obscure strait. This is according to the old magazine article Cameron dug up on some obscure website. Once he had the town and photo, it was easy enough to unearth the address. It\\\\u2019s a two-hour drive from Sowell Bay. That would be four hours in the car alone. Cameron scrolls through the address book on his phone. His thumb hovers over Avery\\\\u2019s number. Would tagging along for a shakedown of a man who might be his biological father be a weird date? It would. Is Avery weird enough to be down with it? Possibly. Everything seems fifty-fifty with Avery, and even though they\\\\u2019ve managed a few coffee dates and a late-night dinner, once, at the pub down in Elland, half the time she develops some snag with her schedule and has to cancel, which seems oddly complicated for a single woman. Paddle store stuff, Cameron assumes. What would he know about owning a business? Holding his breath, he places the call. \\\\u201cHey, you.\\\\u201d She sounds happy to hear from him. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m going on a little adventure today. Wanna come?\\\\u201d Cameron explains his plan. Avery\\\\u2019s sigh seeps through his phone speaker. \\\\u201cCan\\\\u2019t, I\\\\u2019m on duty at the shop. But we should do something later this week.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSure. Later this week.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI mean it,\\\\u201d she says earnestly. \\\\u201cWe\\\\u2019ll go paddling. I\\\\u2019ll check my schedule.\\\\u201d He says goodbye to Avery and sets his phone on the bumper of the camper, where his feet are propped, as he sits in one of Ethan\\\\u2019s lawn chairs. It was gross and rainy when he first got here, but now the weather is perfect. All of the colors seem impossibly vivid, from the wide blue sky to the thick green trees. Nothing like the oppressively hot, dusty oven that Modesto becomes in the summertime. He outstretches his right hand, examining his fingers, then flexes and throws a shadow jab upward at the cloudless summer sky. Life is finally going his way. For one thing, Avery. He\\\\u2019s never caught the attention of a girl quite like Avery before, and somehow her strange evasiveness only adds to her appeal. For another thing: he\\\\u2019s about to do a face-to-face with his maybe dad. And for a third thing: He\\\\u2019s held an actual job for weeks now. He doesn\\\\u2019t even hate it. Who knew? Chopping up fish guts. And cleaning! Not glamorous, but the solitude suits him, especially in the evening. Half the time, he\\\\u2019s the only one at the aquarium when he cleans. On those nights, he smacks the vending machine until it drops something, a package of cookies or stale snack cakes that nobody wants to buy anyway, pops in his earbuds, and zones out while he washes the floors. The other half of the time, the weird lady is there. Tova. She keeps showing up, even though she\\\\u2019s supposed to be on medical leave. Cameron promised he wouldn\\\\u2019t rat her out. He doesn\\\\u2019t mind having her around. Her obsession with that octopus is bizarre, and he hasn\\\\u2019t made much progress making friends with Marcellus, but her company is weirdly enjoyable. Behind him, a screen door bangs. A second later, Ethan appears around the back side of the camper. A faded Led Zeppelin T-shirt a little tight across his torso. He squints at Cameron. \\\\u201cLovely mornin\\\\u2019, innit?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah. And guess what?\\\\u201d Cameron recounts his Simon Brinks discovery and subsequent conversation with Avery. Ethan nods. \\\\u201cWell, let\\\\u2019s go, then. We\\\\u2019ll take my truck.\\\\u201d Cameron tilts his head. \\\\u201cWhat?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYour ears full of porridge, laddie? I said we\\\\u2019ll take my truck!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou want to come with me?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cA\\\\u2019course I do! You think I\\\\u2019d let you smack that wanker around alone?\\\\u201d He beams. \\\\u201cSounds like a right good time, if you ask me.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOkay,\\\\u201d says Cameron slowly. \\\\u201cWe\\\\u2019ll go together.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cGorgeous up that way, anyway, \\\\u2019specially this time of year. We\\\\u2019ll make it an adventure, yeah? I\\\\u2019ll be your tour guide.\\\\u201d Tour guide? \\\\u201cIn fact,\\\\u201d Ethan continues, \\\\u201cthere\\\\u2019s a great little spot for fish \\\\u2019n\\\\u2019 chips off the highway on the way up.\\\\u201d Fish and chips? Who cares about fish and chips? \\\\u201cFine. But first we go find Brinks.\\\\u201d Ethan chuckles. \\\\u201cExtortion first, fish and chips after.\\\\u201d CAMERON STILL CAN\\\\u2019T seem to wrap his head around the shape of the sea here. It\\\\u2019s like a monster with hundreds of long fingers is gripping the edge of the continent, tendrils of deep blue cutting channels through the dark green countryside in every unexpected way. He finds himself constantly surprised by the presence of the water on the left side of the car, then around a curve and on the right side, then over one bridge after another (how many times can a person cross the same body of water?) as Ethan drives along a never-ending two-lane road, the shoulder speckled by bait shops and gas stations and shabby-looking little restaurants that don\\\\u2019t inspire confidence in the fish-and-chips plan. \\\\u201cWon\\\\u2019t be too much longer now,\\\\u201d Ethan shouts, in direct defiance of the tiny map on his dash-mounted phone, which states their arrival time an hour from now. He\\\\u2019s got his brawny elbow slung like a freckled sausage on the rim of the open window, having insisted on keeping the windows down, on account of it being \\\\u201csuch a lovely day for a drive.\\\\u201d The fifty-mile-an-hour wind and Ethan\\\\u2019s accent make it hard to hear. Clutching the class ring in his damp palm, he sketches out the logistics of his impending confrontation in his mind for the thousandth time. Here\\\\u2019s one way it can go. And maybe this is the ideal way. Simon Brinks will be shocked to see him. His mouth will drop open as he recognizes Cameron immediately. Although he might be the kind of douchebag who will try to deny it, Cameron\\\\u2019s got the photographic evidence in his pocket. And then Brinks fesses up to everything. The less-than-ideal way involves Brinks regarding him through narrow eyes. Talking right off the bat about involving attorneys, DNA tests. Keeping his lips zipped about anything until everything is proven. But then, what if it is proven, and Brinks wants a relationship? That\\\\u2019s what Elizabeth keeps saying when she calls to check in. Elizabeth seems convinced that Simon has some sort of latent paternal instinct that will be inspired by the appearance of his long-lost son. Like something out of a movie. But life isn\\\\u2019t some cheesy Hollywood script. Aunt Jeanne keeps hammering on the relationship thing, too, although Cameron suspects that, deep down, she\\\\u2019s skeptical that a person like Simon Brinks would have dated her sister. But last time they chatted, when Cameron mentioned that he\\\\u2019d be on the next plane home if he could get Brinks to cut him a check, she\\\\u2019d sighed disapprovingly. Stay up there awhile if you need to, Aunt Jeanne had said. Bought that ridiculous camper, might as well get some use out of it. Besides, life there seems to suit you. Well, that much is true. But Cameron doesn\\\\u2019t want a relationship with any would-be father. He wants the eighteen years of child support that this shifty asshole never paid. Hell, Cameron would accept a onetime payment. Ten grand? Twenty? He can send it directly to Aunt Jeanne. Cameron owes her a mint for everything he put her through over the years, not to mention the money she fronted him for the camper. He\\\\u2019s already paid back almost half, but it\\\\u2019s still a chunk of change. \\\\u201cAye, look!\\\\u201d Ethan brakes slightly, gesturing to a dirt road turning off the highway. \\\\u201cYou ever want to go whale-watching, there\\\\u2019s a brilliant spot down there. Took a lady friend once. We saw orcas frolicking around like wee kittens. Quite a sight. Ah, the love we made that night was\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cUh, thanks.\\\\u201d Cameron cuts him off. What is with old people in love? \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ll keep that in mind.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, I\\\\u2019m just saying. I know you\\\\u2019ve got that lass.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t think Avery wants to drive all the way up here to look at whales.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cMight not knock it till you try it, eh? They\\\\u2019re majestic creatures.\\\\u201d Ethan turns and winks, and the truck drifts across the center line just as an oncoming car pops around the curve up ahead. He jerks back into the proper lane just in time. \\\\u201cBugger! Eyes on the road. Anyway, there\\\\u2019s a nice spit of sand there, too, great for beachcombing. Lots of starfish and sand dollars.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIf I wanted to show Avery starfish and sand dollars, why wouldn\\\\u2019t I just bring her to work?\\\\u201d Cameron points out dryly. \\\\u201cWe have the largest collection of native echinoderms in the state. That\\\\u2019s what Tova says, anyway.\\\\u201d Ethan\\\\u2019s head swivels and his gaze fixes on Cameron for an alarming stretch of time. His frizzy beard twitches, like he\\\\u2019s biting his lip underneath. Cameron feels himself grip the edge of the bench seat. What happened to eyes on the road? Finally, the big man\\\\u2019s attention snaps back toward the dashboard. They ride in silence for quite a while. His voice is low when he says, \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019ve met Tova Sullivan?\\\\u201d Shit. The secret. No one is supposed to know about Tova coming to the aquarium. Not for the first time, Cameron wonders why it\\\\u2019s such a big deal. After thinking it over for a minute, he decides that it shouldn\\\\u2019t be. Old people are weird sometimes. And why would Ethan care anyway? After a pause, he answers, \\\\u201cYeah, Tova comes by once in a while to help out.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI thought she was on medical leave.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cShe is. Forget I said anything.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIs she all right?\\\\u201d There\\\\u2019s a quiet reverence to Ethan\\\\u2019s voice. \\\\u201cShe\\\\u2019s fine. Her foot\\\\u2019s getting better, I think.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cVery glad to hear that,\\\\u201d Ethan mumbles. His ruddy cheeks are even redder than usual. A grin spreads across Cameron\\\\u2019s face. \\\\u201cOh my God. You like her.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, who wouldn\\\\u2019t like her?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThat\\\\u2019s pure bullshit. It\\\\u2019s written all over you.\\\\u201d Now Ethan\\\\u2019s ears are also deep red. \\\\u201cShe\\\\u2019s a lovely lady.\\\\u201d \\\\u201c\\\\u2018She\\\\u2019s a lovely lady,\\\\u2019\\\\u201d Cameron repeats, imitating the Scot. He reaches over and gives Ethan a little smack on the shoulder. \\\\u201cCome on, bro. Let\\\\u2019s hear it. You two have a history, or what?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cA history?\\\\u201d Ethan\\\\u2019s mouth presses into a serious line. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019d never pursue a married lady. Which is what Mrs. Sullivan was, up till recently.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh.\\\\u201d Cameron slumps. \\\\u201cI didn\\\\u2019t know that.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah. Husband was a decent bloke. Died of pancreatic cancer a couple years ago.\\\\u201d Cameron folds his hands in his lap and studies them. For some reason, learning this about Tova stings a little. That she hadn\\\\u2019t bothered to share this basic information. \\\\u201cBeen a rough life,\\\\u201d Ethan goes on, \\\\u201cwhat with her son and all.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat are you talking about?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou don\\\\u2019t know about that? Well, I guess you wouldn\\\\u2019t. It\\\\u2019s local knowledge, but you haven\\\\u2019t been here long. And folks don\\\\u2019t bring it up like they used to.\\\\u201d With a shiver, Cameron recalls Tova\\\\u2019s comment. People in Sowell Bay like to talk. He mutters, \\\\u201cI didn\\\\u2019t know she had a son.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIsn\\\\u2019t my story to tell, but I s\\\\u2019pose it\\\\u2019s as good to hear it from me as from anyone else.\\\\u201d Ethan draws in a long breath. \\\\u201cSo back in the late eighties, her son was working the ferry dock. Erik, his name was. Bloody smart. Valedictorian of his class. Brilliant at sports, captain of the sailing team. You get the idea.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah, sure,\\\\u201d Cameron says. Every high school has an Erik. \\\\u201cAnyway, he was\\\\u2014oh, bloody hell. Have I missed the turnoff?\\\\u201d Ethan snatches his phone and squints at the screen. \\\\u201cWell, Rhonda? Why didn\\\\u2019t you tip me off?\\\\u201d Cameron arches a brow. \\\\u201cRhonda?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThat\\\\u2019s what I call the lady\\\\u2019s voice who reads out the directions. And she\\\\u2019s buggered it this time.\\\\u201d The phone lands with a clatter in the cup holder. \\\\u201cYour old man\\\\u2019s place is a mile back that way,\\\\u201d he says, jabbing his thumb behind. \\\\u201cWhat about the story? About Tova\\\\u2019s son?\\\\u201d Cameron\\\\u2019s knuckles whiten, clinging to the door handle as the truck reels in a tight circle, in what is definitely not a legal U-turn. \\\\u201cEh, never mind about that.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh, come on!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI shouldn\\\\u2019t have brought it up. It\\\\u2019s sad.\\\\u201d The truck\\\\u2019s tires hum on the pavement as it gains speed heading south now. Between the dense treetops, slivers of pale blue water peek through. \\\\u201cHer son died. Drowned. When he was eighteen.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh God.\\\\u201d Cameron lets out a breath. \\\\u201cThat\\\\u2019s horrible.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAye,\\\\u201d says Ethan quietly. \\\\u201cWell, here we are.\\\\u201d He guides the truck off the blacktop and onto an unmarked gravel road, kicking up a huge cloud of dust that makes both of them cough. Cameron rolls up his window, eyeing the road skeptically. It\\\\u2019s pocked and weedy. \\\\u201cAre you sure?\\\\u201d Ethan holds up the phone, double-checking the address. \\\\u201cYep. Definitely it.\\\\u201d SURE AS SHIT, this is not it. It could be a good location for a billionaire\\\\u2019s vacation home. The empty bluff overlooks dark blue sea on three sides. But there is no Tuscan-style villa, no billionaire deadbeat potential father lounging poolside, sipping from a golden goblet. Just a dusky gravel clearing that reminds Cameron of a certain type of movie set, the kind where kids are making out in a car before they get slashed up by a serial killer. \\\\u201cShit,\\\\u201d he mutters, kicking a pinecone across the dirt. It disappears over the edge and tumbles down the cliffside. \\\\u201cSo this isn\\\\u2019t it,\\\\u201d Ethan says pointlessly. \\\\u201cDefinitely not.\\\\u201d Maybe Cameron\\\\u2019s internet sleuthing skills aren\\\\u2019t as impressive as he\\\\u2019d thought. They head back to the truck and begin the lumbering trek back along the choppy road. Ethan hits a rough spot, braking when he should\\\\u2019ve pushed through. A typical rookie reaction. But now they\\\\u2019re stuck. The wheels spin uselessly as Ethan stomps on the accelerator. \\\\u201cWhoa, chill. You hit a nasty groove,\\\\u201d Cameron explains patiently. Sure, the road is a little gnarly, but it\\\\u2019s entry-level four-wheeling. Child\\\\u2019s play compared to the nasty shit he and Katie used to run out in the California desert with his old Jeep, before it got repossessed. \\\\u201cBloody rut,\\\\u201d Ethan says under his breath as he jams on the gas even harder. The truck\\\\u2019s transmission groans and whines, like it\\\\u2019s sick of this adventure, too. Cameron sighs. \\\\u201cLet me try?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou?\\\\u201d Ethan frowns, but his eyes widen with curiosity, maybe hope. \\\\u201cWell, I suppose so.\\\\u201d He cuts the engine and tosses Cameron the keys. \\\\u201cOkay. Come on, let\\\\u2019s get out.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOut?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah, out.\\\\u201d Cameron tries to tamp down the impatience in his voice as he climbs down from the cab. \\\\u201cWe need to check out what\\\\u2019s going on down there. Might need to shore up the traction in the back. You got anything we could use as a wedge?\\\\u201d He scans the road, which drops into dark, thick forest at the edge. Nothing like the wide desert. But there\\\\u2019s a small boulder on the side that might work. He jerks his head toward it and commands, \\\\u201cGrab that rock over there.\\\\u201d Ethan looks surprised. Impressed, even. Cameron allows himself a tiny smile. \\\\u201cUsed to off-road in the desert once in a while.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAye.\\\\u201d Ethan nods and lopes off toward the appointed rock. By the time he returns, Cameron has already packed a pad of thick, dry dirt in front of the rear wheels and is peering under the chassis, using the edges of his hands like tiny protractors to work out the angles. Cameron explains how it\\\\u2019s going to work. \\\\u201cFirst, we push the truck forward, even just an inch or two, and wedge the right tire with that rock. Then we come out at a hard left, then once the back wheels catch, cut right.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cLeft?\\\\u201d Ethan looks left, at the wall of trees. There\\\\u2019s maybe two feet between the side of the front bumper and the first row of thick trunks. \\\\u201cNo, I don\\\\u2019t think so.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019ll work. It\\\\u2019s just physics.\\\\u201d Cameron remembers so many of these conversations with his four-wheeling friends. They couldn\\\\u2019t see it like he could, the forces that would launch the vehicle this way and that, even when it seemed impossible. They\\\\u2019d sit there and spin their wheels, both metaphorically and physically. Looking earnestly at Ethan\\\\u2019s doubtful face, he adds, \\\\u201cTrust me.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAye, then.\\\\u201d Left, hard right, a splatter of gravelly mud in the rearview mirror, and with a stomach-yanking jostle that alarms even Cameron, the truck bolts up the road. Once they\\\\u2019re clear of the rut, he lets out a laugh. He\\\\u2019d forgotten how much fun this is, and this pickup is no Jeep, but it isn\\\\u2019t half-bad on the rough stuff. He glances over to see Ethan practically shitting a brick. A wicked grin tugs at the corner of Cameron\\\\u2019s mouth as he intentionally dips the front wheels through a divot, causing both of them to bounce. \\\\u201cWant to have some more fun?\\\\u201d In the passenger seat, Ethan throws his head back and lets out a strange, almost canine, howl. \\\\u201cLet\\\\u2019s do it!\\\\u201d Cameron slams on the gas. This is a hell of a lot more fun than fish and chips. \\\\n Day 1,341 of My Captivity SEA CREATURES ARE MASTERS OF DECEIT. I AM SURE you are familiar with the anglerfish, which lurks in dark waters behind a luminescent lure that attracts prey right into its maw. We do not have anglerfish here (and I cannot say I am sorry for that), but there was once a fascinating display poster about them in the lobby. We all lie to obtain what we need. The seahorse, who impersonates a strand of kelp. The blenny, who poses as a cleaner fish, biding its time to take a bite of its gracious host. Even my own ability to change colors, my camouflage, is a falsehood at its core. A lie that\\\\u2019s on its last legs, I am afraid, as I find it ever more difficult to shift to my surroundings. Humans are the only species who subvert truth for their own entertainment. They call them jokes. Sometimes puns. Say one thing when you mean another. Laugh, or feign laughter out of politeness. I cannot laugh. But I heard a joke today that I found clever as well as timely. I should warn you that the punch line is rather macabre. The young family had paused in front of my tank and the father (for it is usually the father, which I suppose is why they sometimes call them \\\\u201cdad jokes\\\\u201d) turned to his small child and said: What did the tiger say when he got his tail caught in the lawn mower? (Do not ask me why a jungle cat is in the presence of a turf-grooming machine. Jokes are often nonsensical.) The child, already giggling, said: I don\\\\u2019t know! What? And the father answered: It won\\\\u2019t be long now. I would have laughed, were such a thing possible. It won\\\\u2019t be long now. This is true. I can feel my very cells struggling to carry out their typical functions. Tomorrow, a new month begins, and perhaps it will be the last time I notice that Terry has flipped the calendar on his wall. My inevitable end draws near. \\\\n A Three-Martini Truth Mary Ann Minetti\\\\u2019s farewell luncheon begins at noon on a hot day in August. Tova arrives at the Elland Chophouse ten minutes early. Unrelenting sunlight assaults her eyes, and she squints as she climbs the restaurant\\\\u2019s front steps in the poshest section of Elland\\\\u2019s waterfront district. Her ankle is still tender and shriveled from its weeks inside the boot. \\\\u201cMrs. Sullivan!\\\\u201d A familiar voice calls from behind as a steadying arm clasps her elbow. \\\\u201cLaura, dear. How are you?\\\\u201d Tova inclines her head at Mary Ann\\\\u2019s daughter, a trim woman in her forties, accepting the younger woman\\\\u2019s assistance as she summits the staircase. According to Mary Ann, Laura had arrived last week to help her mother make preparations. And it was Laura who organized this luncheon, who chose this fancy restaurant. Tova\\\\u2019s not convinced that Mary Ann herself wouldn\\\\u2019t have preferred coffee at her home, although maybe that\\\\u2019s not possible now that the house is being packed up and prepped for the realtors. \\\\u201cGood, good.\\\\u201d Laura nods, holding the front door for both of them. \\\\u201cAnd I\\\\u2019m glad to see you\\\\u2019re on the mend! Mom told me about your fall.\\\\u201d She arches a brow at Tova\\\\u2019s foot. \\\\u201cIt was only a sprain.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI know, but at your age . . .\\\\u201d A chipper greeting from the young lady behind the hostess stand spares Tova the need to respond. Hoisting an impossibly tall stack of menus, she leads them through the restaurant to a long, empty table abutting a bank of windows overlooking the water. The view, at least, is lovely. \\\\u201cYour server should be over in a couple minutes. I can grab you a drink in the meantime,\\\\u201d the hostess offers as she circles the table, placing a menu at each setting. There must be at least thirty places. Good heavens. How many people did Laura invite? \\\\u201cHell yes. Gin and tonic, please.\\\\u201d Laura drops her purse onto the table and sighs. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ve spent all morning helping my mother pack up the house she\\\\u2019s lived in for half a century. Better make it a double.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOf course, ma\\\\u2019am.\\\\u201d Tova lowers into a chair near the end of the table, picturing the menagerie of porcelain figurines and polished crosses that have always lived on the shelf over Mary Ann\\\\u2019s kitchen sink wrapped in tissue and loaded into a cardboard box, where they\\\\u2019ll likely stay for years until some unfortunate younger family member happens upon them and must decide how to get rid of them. She forces a smile at the hostess, who seems to be waiting for her drink order. \\\\u201cJust a coffee, please. Black.\\\\u201d The hostess whisks away with a nod, leaving the two women in the sort of silence that makes Tova wish she\\\\u2019d brought her knitting along. Finally, she asks, \\\\u201cHow are the girls?\\\\u201d Laura\\\\u2019s daughter, Tatum, and young granddaughter, Isabelle, live with Laura in Spokane. Now Mary Ann, a great-grandmother at only seventy, will live with them, too. Of course, the situation with Tatum and her baby hadn\\\\u2019t been planned, but Tova can\\\\u2019t help feeling wonder at how it\\\\u2019s shaken out. Four generations of women under one roof. Laura nods. \\\\u201cThe girls are good. Great. Isabelle\\\\u2019s walking now.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWonderful,\\\\u201d Tova says. \\\\u201cYes.\\\\u201d Laura smiles, but doesn\\\\u2019t elaborate, in the way that people often don\\\\u2019t elaborate when it comes to discussing children around Tova, which is sometimes a mixed blessing. The uncomfortable silence descends again, so Tova asks, \\\\u201cHow\\\\u2019s work, dear?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s . . . work.\\\\u201d Laura lets out a genuine chuckle before launching into a tale about the technology update happening over the summer at the state university, where she teaches psychology. Tova nods along. It does, indeed, sound like a nightmare. Laura sighs sympathetically, then explains, \\\\u201cSo that\\\\u2019s why we had to get Mom moved so quickly. Before the start of fall term, anyway. I feel terrible that you ladies don\\\\u2019t get much of a goodbye. I know how close you\\\\u2019ve all been. For decades.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThere\\\\u2019s always the telephone.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWe\\\\u2019ll get Mom set up with a tablet. That way she can virtually attend your Knit-Wit meetings!\\\\u201d Laura beams, looking very pleased with herself at this solution, whatever it means. \\\\u201cAnd what about you? When will you go back to work at the aquarium?\\\\u201d Tova straightens and recounts to Laura her recent conversation with Terry. He agreed to allow her to come back and \\\\u201chelp out the new guy,\\\\u201d as he put it. Tova couldn\\\\u2019t be more pleased with this arrangement, which allows her to mentor him in the proper way to do things, and she should have plenty of time to do that before her move to Charter Village at the end of the month. She doesn\\\\u2019t mention that she also rather likes spending time with the boy. \\\\u201cMom! Over here!\\\\u201d Laura hollers to Mary Ann, who waves from across the restaurant, trailed by Barb Vanderhoof and Janice and Peter Kim. \\\\u201cYoo-hoo!\\\\u201d Barb flutters her hands as they approach the table. She\\\\u2019s wearing a sequined top that\\\\u2019s far too snug across her chest. \\\\u201cLook at this! How fancy!\\\\u201d She wraps Laura in a hug. Janice slips into the seat next to Tova. \\\\u201cHow goes it, Tova?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHow\\\\u2019s that ankle?\\\\u201d Peter Kim sits next to his wife. \\\\u201cVery well, thanks,\\\\u201d Tova replies, hoping her injury won\\\\u2019t be the topic of conversation this afternoon. \\\\u201cExcellent news. But what happened to your arm?\\\\u201d Tova tugs at her sleeve, trying to cover the newest line of sucker marks. \\\\u201cThat\\\\u2019s nothing at all. Must be from the sun.\\\\u201d Peter frowns, and Tova can tell he\\\\u2019s putting on his doctor hat, about to push the issue, but he\\\\u2019s mercifully interrupted by the guest of honor. \\\\u201cOh my. Thank you all for coming!\\\\u201d Mary Ann lets out a girlish giggle and takes her designated seat at the center of the table as more people filter in. Tova recognizes several parishioners from St. Ann\\\\u2019s, where Mary Ann was on the board for years, along with neighbors. In a matter of minutes, most of the seats are filled, leaving only the two on Tova\\\\u2019s other side empty. Relieved to be next to the no-shows, she places her purse on one. \\\\u201cWell, doesn\\\\u2019t this look like a rowdy bunch!\\\\u201d A young man with deep brown skin and sparkling eyes approaches with two pitchers of water. Omar, according to his name tag. \\\\u201cGlad I wore my sneakers because I can tell you all will keep me on my toes!\\\\u201d An approving laugh moves across the crowd. \\\\u201cWe came to party!\\\\u201d Barb Vanderhoof shimmies. Omar makes finger guns and aims them at her. \\\\u201cThat\\\\u2019s the spirit!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOur dear friend Mary Ann is moving away.\\\\u201d Barb gestures at Mary Ann, who is blushing. \\\\u201cTo Spokane.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYikes! Spokane! I\\\\u2019m sorry.\\\\u201d Omar makes a face like he just ate a lemon, but his eyes are still twinkling. \\\\u201cHey now! I live in Spokane!\\\\u201d Laughing, Laura lofts her empty highball glass. Tova\\\\u2019s coffee finally arrives, via a harried-looking busboy. She studies the thick black liquid before taking a sip. It\\\\u2019s hot and strong. She picks up the menu and studies it, clicking her tongue at the descriptions, things like basil cream foam and heirloom turnip reduction. Where are the soups and salads? A cup of corn chowder would do nicely. \\\\u201cThese seats taken?\\\\u201d A deep voice, vaguely familiar, breaks her focus on the menu. She looks up at a tall figure. He doesn\\\\u2019t look so strange without his bike shorts and space-age sunglasses and helmet, but it\\\\u2019s Adam Wright, the fellow who helped her with her crossword down at Hamilton Park a few weeks ago. \\\\u201cOh! Hello.\\\\u201d He breaks into a smile, recognizing her as well. \\\\u201cNice to see you again,\\\\u201d Tova says, moving her pocketbook from the chair. On Adam\\\\u2019s other side is a short woman with curly auburn hair. \\\\u201cThis is Sandy Hewitt,\\\\u201d he says, giving his companion\\\\u2019s arm a squeeze as they both sit. \\\\u201cSandy, meet Tova Sullivan.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHow do you do,\\\\u201d Tova says with a nod. The busboy returns with two martinis on a tray. Carefully, he sets them in front of the couple. Adam takes a long gulp, which reminds Tova of that day when he chugged her bottle of water in the park. \\\\u201cLaura and I went to Sunday school together at St. Ann\\\\u2019s,\\\\u201d he explains. \\\\u201cShe heard I\\\\u2019d moved back to town. And somehow roped me into helping out with her mother\\\\u2019s move. And now I\\\\u2019ve roped in my better half, too.\\\\u201d He winks at Sandy. \\\\u201cThey\\\\u2019re lucky to have him.\\\\u201d She grins and squeezes Adam\\\\u2019s bicep. \\\\u201cAnd I\\\\u2019m always happy to help out, not that I\\\\u2019m much for heavy lifting. But Laura was nice enough to include me in lunch. It\\\\u2019s great to meet so much of Sowell Bay, all at once.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYes, Laura really went above and beyond with the guest list, didn\\\\u2019t she?\\\\u201d Tova sips her coffee. \\\\u201cI guess so.\\\\u201d Sandy tilts her head. \\\\u201cSo, how do you and Adam know each other?\\\\u201d Tova clears her throat, then says quietly, \\\\u201cAdam was a friend of my son\\\\u2019s.\\\\u201d Adam flattens his lips. Then he leans down to Sandy\\\\u2019s ear, and most of the whispered explanation is inaudible to Tova, but she catches the words there was this kid who . . . Sandy\\\\u2019s eyes widen, and she shoots Tova a sympathetic look before turning her attention to intensely studying the menu. Smoothing her hair, she straightens in her chair and clasps her hands. \\\\u201cWell,\\\\u201d she chirps, addressing the table at large. \\\\u201cWho\\\\u2019s decided what they\\\\u2019re having? I\\\\u2019ve heard the skirt steak is to die for!\\\\u201d CORN CHOWDER, AS it turns out, is not available at the Elland Chophouse. But Omar recommends a curried squash bisque that, to Tova\\\\u2019s surprise, is lovely. She sops every last drop with the accompanying hunk of sourdough while Adam Wright and Peter Kim complain across Tova and Janice about the Mariners and their losing streak, a subject that doesn\\\\u2019t interest Tova in the least. \\\\u201cBaseball. Who cares, right?\\\\u201d Janice says. Tova smiles, then dabs a napkin on the corners of her mouth. \\\\u201cThe only thing more tedious than watching it is talking about it.\\\\u201d Peter Kim gives his wife\\\\u2019s shoulder a playful squeeze. \\\\u201cSorry to bore you, darling.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHey, maybe I\\\\u2019m cursed.\\\\u201d Adam Wright laughs. \\\\u201cI move back to town and suddenly they start sucking. Should\\\\u2019ve stayed in Chicago.\\\\u201d He drains his martini, then smiles at Sandy as he plucks one fat green olive from the sword-shaped plastic spear and offers her the other, slinging an arm across the back of her chair. Janice leans toward Sandy. \\\\u201cAny news on the house hunt?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh yes!\\\\u201d Sandy beams. \\\\u201cWe decided on one of those new builds. That subdivision on the south end of town.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHow perfect. You can finish things exactly how you want them.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cExactly! Adam\\\\u2019s planning to build a man cave in the basement. For baseball-watching.\\\\u201d Peter Kim lights up. \\\\u201cExcellent! I\\\\u2019ll be over on game day!\\\\u201d The four of them share a laugh. Sandy turns to Tova. \\\\u201cWhat about you, Mrs. Sullivan?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat do you mean?\\\\u201d Tova lifts a brow. \\\\u201cYour house? Have you had any offers?\\\\u201d Janice drops her fork and turns to stare at Tova. \\\\u201cJessica Snell mentioned it at closing. That your house had just come on the market. Not a good fit for us, of course. We need at least five bedrooms for when the grandkids come visit.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cEventual grandkids,\\\\u201d Adam corrects her. \\\\u201cTheoretical grandkids.\\\\u201d Tova twists her napkin in her lap. \\\\u201cSuch a gorgeous house, though,\\\\u201d Sandy yammers on. \\\\u201cJessica said she didn\\\\u2019t think it would last long. Someone will snap it up.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYes, I suppose so,\\\\u201d Tova says quietly. \\\\u201cTova.\\\\u201d Janice\\\\u2019s voice is sharp. \\\\u201cWhat is she talking about?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh. Is it not . . . ? I mean, did you all not know . . . ?\\\\u201d Sandy\\\\u2019s cheeks turn as red as the pimento in Adam\\\\u2019s fresh martini. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s quite all right.\\\\u201d Tova clears her throat. \\\\u201cSandy is correct. I\\\\u2019m selling my house. I\\\\u2019ve applied for a suite up at Charter Village in Bellingham.\\\\u201d A silence falls over the table. \\\\u201cWhat?\\\\u201d Mary Ann gasps. \\\\u201cWhy didn\\\\u2019t you say anything?\\\\u201d Barb demands. \\\\u201cWhat about the house?\\\\u201d Janice leans forward. \\\\u201cThat beautiful house! Your father\\\\u2019s house!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAnd all of your things, Tova!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou have so many beautiful things! You\\\\u2019re not going to get rid of it all?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhere will all of your things go?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSo many things to go through!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThat attic, I can\\\\u2019t imagine.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThose trunks of your mother\\\\u2019s, the cedar ones. What a shame!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m perfectly capable of dealing with my belongings,\\\\u201d Tova says, her voice taut. This puts a stop to the volley of comments. How can the Knit-Wits cast judgment on her possessions, anyway? Mary Ann with all those statuettes, and Janice\\\\u2019s house has a whole room dedicated to computer equipment, much of which seems to serve no actual purpose. Barb, for some reason that has never been fully explained, has been collecting elephants since she was a bachelorette, for heaven\\\\u2019s sake. Her whole guest bedroom is full of elephant keepsakes. Who are they to cast stones? Janice lays a hand on Tova\\\\u2019s shoulder. \\\\u201cYou don\\\\u2019t need to do this, you know. Peter and I have always said you could live with us, that you could\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAbsolutely not. I would never burden you in that way.\\\\u201d Janice shakes her head. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re never a burden, Tova.\\\\u201d AS THE DISHES are being cleared, Mary Ann makes a trip around the table to thank everyone for coming. Janice and Peter Kim bid goodbye, explaining that they\\\\u2019ll be late for their pottery class. Barb Vanderhoof and her too-tight sequins shimmy out of the room on their way to her weekly therapist appointment. Omar brings the check for Laura to sign and makes a joke about Mary Ann causing trouble in Spokane. Adam Wright swallows the dregs of his third martini and clasps his hands around Mary Ann\\\\u2019s forearm. \\\\u201cThank you for having us!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThis was so lovely!\\\\u201d Sandy chimes in, seeming to have forgotten about the bomb she dropped earlier. Thankfully, the rest of the table seems to have shrugged it off, too, although Tova caught Janice and Barb whispering about changing her mind. Mary Ann\\\\u2019s smile is tight as she perches on the empty chair next to Tova. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ll see you before I leave this weekend, won\\\\u2019t I?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cCertainly. I\\\\u2019ll stop by.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019d like that.\\\\u201d Mary Ann\\\\u2019s voice shakes a bit. Laura hurries over and stands behind her mother, winds an arm around her shoulders. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s so great of you to take your mom in.\\\\u201d Adam turns to Mary Ann, leaning back in his chair. \\\\u201cMan, I\\\\u2019m glad I had kids, even if it means I\\\\u2019ll never be rid of my ex-wife. Because it would be hell to get old alone. Isn\\\\u2019t that why anyone has kids?\\\\u201d Sandy jabs him. \\\\u201cDon\\\\u2019t be ridiculous, babe.\\\\u201d Laura eyes him sharply, offering no response other than to reach in front of him to pick up his not-quite-empty martini glass and hand it off to a passing waiter. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m an idiot.\\\\u201d Adam raises his hand and then lowers it. \\\\u201cTova, I\\\\u2019m sorry. I didn\\\\u2019t mean that. You won\\\\u2019t get old alone. Even with Erik gone.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s quite all right,\\\\u201d Tova says quietly. \\\\u201cIt was a long time ago.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI remember it like it was yesterday.\\\\u201d Adam\\\\u2019s voice is clearer now. Mary Ann claps a hand over her mouth, and Laura plants her hands on her hips, shooting a glare that could shatter stone. But Tova turns to Adam, suddenly aware of her heart throbbing under her blouse. \\\\u201cI always welcome what people remember.\\\\u201d His drags a hand over his face. \\\\u201cI mean, nothing you don\\\\u2019t already know, I\\\\u2019m sure. I remember the last time I saw him. We grabbed nachos at the snack bar that afternoon, before he started work. We were planning to go out to my family\\\\u2019s cabin the next day. He was going to sneak some beers from your fridge, as usual.\\\\u201d He cringes. \\\\u201cUh, sorry about that.\\\\u201d Tova waves a hand. \\\\u201cNo matter.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAnyway,\\\\u201d Adam goes on, \\\\u201che wanted to impress that girl, whatever her name was. He was going to bring her to the cabin.\\\\u201d Tova lets out a stony chuckle. Stealing beer from the fridge? That sounded like her son. But the rest, was it possible? She shakes her head. \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t remember Erik having a girlfriend at that time.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t know what she was, technically, but they were a thing.\\\\u201d Adam frowns and furrows a brow. \\\\u201cDamn. What was her name?\\\\u201d Laura lays a hand on Tova\\\\u2019s shoulder. \\\\u201cAre you okay?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cTova? Dear?\\\\u201d Mary Ann echoes her daughter. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m perfectly fine.\\\\u201d Tova\\\\u2019s voice sounds like it\\\\u2019s coming from inside a cave. She stands and thanks Laura for the luncheon while giving Mary Ann a brief hug, then hears herself bid goodbye to Adam Wright and Sandy Hewitt. Click-clack, click-clack. The sound of her sandals on the restaurant\\\\u2019s hardwood floor seems to propel her away from the table. Outside, late-afternoon sun assaults her, and she shields her face with a hand as she beelines across the Elland Chophouse parking lot toward her car. Only once she\\\\u2019s sitting in the driver\\\\u2019s seat with the ignition turned on and the radio playing does she realize she\\\\u2019s been holding her breath. It comes out, hot and fast, the blowback fogging her glasses. So Will had been right. There was a girl. \\\\n The Pier\\\\u2019s Shadow Avery\\\\u2019s house is small with yellow vinyl siding in a subdivision off the county highway. It\\\\u2019s a haul from town; no wonder Avery showers at the store after her morning paddle, even if the water is ice-cold, instead of driving home. Garden tools and yard-waste bags are all over the place on one side of her driveway, barely leaving room for Cameron to park his camper. She appears in the front doorway clutching a coffee mug. A pair of running shorts sits low on her hips, a flash of light-brown skin peeking out between the waistband and her tank top. Damn. Suddenly, he\\\\u2019s very glad she suggested they meet here for their paddleboarding date rather than down at her shop. She had claimed it was because she doesn\\\\u2019t like to come into work on her days off, but maybe she has something more in mind? Squinting into the sun, she says, \\\\u201cYou made it!\\\\u201d Cameron hops down from the cab and tucks the keys in his pocket. \\\\u201cDid you expect otherwise?\\\\u201d She grins. \\\\u201cTo be honest, I don\\\\u2019t normally date younger guys. I\\\\u2019ve been ghosted more than once.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYounger guys? How old do you think I am?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cTwenty-four?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cTry thirty.\\\\u201d Cameron bounds up the short set of front steps in one leap. \\\\u201cBut I\\\\u2019ll forgive you. It\\\\u2019s hard to tell with my youthful glow and athleticism.\\\\u201d Avery rolls her eyes. \\\\u201cSave your chest-puffing for after I get you on a paddleboard. We\\\\u2019ll talk about your athleticism then.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m sure I\\\\u2019ll be a natural. Naturally.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cUh-huh.\\\\u201d Avery smirks. She gestures at the open door. \\\\u201cCome in for a bit? I need to finish getting ready.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSure. But what about you?\\\\u201d Avery turns to him, puzzled. \\\\u201cWhat about me?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHow old are you?\\\\u201d A note of anxiety creeps into Cameron\\\\u2019s voice. \\\\u201cTurned thirty-two last month.\\\\u201d She laughs at his look of relief, then bends down to pick up a lone sock from the laminate floor. \\\\u201cWhy, how old did you think I was?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh, early twenties, obviously.\\\\u201d She bats him with the sock. \\\\u201cStop.\\\\u201d Cameron puts on his best smile. \\\\u201cI mean, why not? You\\\\u2019re\\\\u2014\\\\u201d A beleaguered grunt from the other room interrupts him. Moments later, a teenage boy lopes out. He\\\\u2019s almost as tall as Cameron, with shaggy dark curls and the same olive complexion as Avery. Without a glance at Cameron, the boy holds up a cereal box and moans, \\\\u201cMom! We\\\\u2019re outta Cheerios.\\\\u201d Cameron\\\\u2019s jaw drops. A kid? A teenage kid? A look of surprise crosses Avery\\\\u2019s face, then she inhales stiffly. \\\\u201cCameron, this is Marco.\\\\u201d She turns to the teenager, who glares at Cameron the way someone looks at a fresh turd. \\\\u201cHoney, this is my friend Cameron.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHey,\\\\u201d Cameron says with a nod. \\\\u201cSup.\\\\u201d Marco juts his chin. \\\\u201cDon\\\\u2019t mind him. He\\\\u2019s fifteen. And I thought he had headed out on a bike ride ten minutes ago,\\\\u201d Avery says, ruffling Marco\\\\u2019s hair, which he tolerates for a couple of seconds before ducking away from her hand. Cameron runs the numbers in his head three times to make sure he\\\\u2019s got it right. Seventeen. Avery had a kid when she was seventeen! \\\\u201cMarco, hon, what do we do when we\\\\u2019re out of Cheerios?\\\\u201d Marco rolls his eyes. \\\\u201cThe list.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cRight. We add it to the shopping list,\\\\u201d she says, her tone pointed. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m sure you\\\\u2019ll find something else to eat in the meantime.\\\\u201d Marco mutters, \\\\u201cWe\\\\u2019re out of chips, too.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh, the humanity,\\\\u201d Avery says dryly. \\\\u201cLook, I\\\\u2019ll try to get to the grocery store later. Cameron and I are going out on the water. Don\\\\u2019t trash the house while I\\\\u2019m gone, okay?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cCan Kyle and Nate come over later?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIf you promise to do something besides play video games all day. Go ride your bikes! And the lawn needs mowing.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah, fine. I\\\\u2019ll mow.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cGreat. Have fun. And here.\\\\u201d She tosses the sock at him. \\\\u201cThis got lost on its way to the hamper.\\\\u201d These last words send a shock wave through Cameron. That\\\\u2019s exactly what Katie used to say to him when he\\\\u2019d leave his clothes on their bedroom floor. \\\\u201cI SHOULD\\\\u2019VE TOLD you.\\\\u201d Avery bites her lip and stares out the passenger window of the camper. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m sorry.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNo! It\\\\u2019s cool. Totally cool.\\\\u201d Cameron rests his arm on the rim of the open window. Is it cool? To his surprise . . . yeah, maybe it is. Watching Avery as a mom, for some reason, had impressed him in a way that he\\\\u2019d never been impressed by a girl before. He turns off the highway and down the long, winding hill toward the water. The transmission shudders at the downshift, and that damn loose belt squeals, which causes him to second-guess his insistence on driving. He had wanted to show off the camper, though. It\\\\u2019s looking good these days. He scrubbed the whole inside down with vinegar and lemon, and even the windows are streak-free. He even sprung for a cheap, but new, mattress. She gives him a sidelong look. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re cool with me having a kid?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, I guess it means you\\\\u2019re easy,\\\\u201d he says, voice hitching on the last syllable. Did his joke cross the line? But Avery bursts out laughing and gives his shoulder a playful shove. \\\\u201cYou are so going in the water. I\\\\u2019ll dunk you myself.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou can\\\\u2019t! I don\\\\u2019t have a swimsuit.\\\\u201d This is true. All of Cameron\\\\u2019s board shorts are stuffed in a black garbage bag, where they went after Katie tossed them off her balcony. The garbage sack has probably been moved to Brad and Elizabeth\\\\u2019s basement by now. Avery stares at him, incredulous. \\\\u201cWhy not?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cDon\\\\u2019t own one at the moment.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWe have trunks at my shop, you know.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cToo rich for my blood. What do you think they\\\\u2019re paying me to hack up mackerel and mop up the guts afterward?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cDon\\\\u2019t be ridiculous. I would have given you a pair for free!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNah, I\\\\u2019m done with handouts. Although that shit you gave me for my neck was amazing.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cFair enough.\\\\u201d She shakes her head, smiling. \\\\u201cBut I hope you like being cold and wet.\\\\u201d TINY WAVES LAP at the pebbled shore. How hard could this be? Nonetheless, Avery gives him the play-by-play. \\\\u201cSo, you want to put your feet here.\\\\u201d She points to the middle of his board. \\\\u201cAnd hold your paddle like this,\\\\u201d she says, demonstrating. Cameron nods, half listening as she goes through a million more directives. \\\\u201cAnd the last thing,\\\\u201d she chirps as she launches her board gracefully over the water, \\\\u201cis don\\\\u2019t fall in!\\\\u201d A breeze flips up the edge of her running shorts, distracting him. \\\\u201cI won\\\\u2019t,\\\\u201d he promises. He lies on his stomach, as instructed, and launches his board from the beach. But as soon as he rises to a knee, preparing to stand, he starts to topple. With a humbling splash, his foot plunges, sinking into the rough sand six inches below. \\\\u201cHoly shit!\\\\u201d he gasps. The icy water knocks his breath away. Shockingly cold. \\\\u201cFive seconds.\\\\u201d Avery looks over her shoulder, brow raised. \\\\u201cA record.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI was just testing the water.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cTry widening your stance.\\\\u201d Somehow, Cameron gets both feet on the board. And Avery is right; wider is better. When she tells him in a pointed way that she\\\\u2019s taking him on her standard beginner route, he lets it slide. Puget Sound is freezing. He follows her around a long, curved jetty. On the outermost rock, a seagull cocks its head, its glare comically angry. Studying the surly bird almost leads to another spill, but this time, he recovers. With each paddle stroke, he\\\\u2019s feeling steadier. They\\\\u2019re halfway to the pier when Avery sets down her paddle and sits, cross-legged, on her board. Cameron\\\\u2019s eyes widen. Is he supposed to pull that off, too? She giggles. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s not as hard as it looks. Keep your weight balanced as you lower down.\\\\u201d Holding his breath, Cameron follows her instructions and soon finds himself seated, bobbing on the waves. \\\\u201cThis is nice,\\\\u201d he says. \\\\u201cIsn\\\\u2019t it?\\\\u201d Avery reclines, propping on her elbows. Her shirt hikes, revealing her perfect little belly button. \\\\u201cSowell Bay has some of the calmest water in all of Puget Sound. Part of the reason I moved here.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhen was that?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cFive years ago? Yeah, that\\\\u2019s right. Marco was ten. We moved up from Seattle.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThat must\\\\u2019ve been tough.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHe did okay. His dad took a job in Anacortes, and Sowell Bay was halfway between.\\\\u201d She trails a hand through the water. \\\\u201cPlus, I\\\\u2019d always wanted to start a paddle shop, which I never would\\\\u2019ve been able to afford in Seattle.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat did you do before?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSome odd jobs, but when Marco was little, I was a mom, mostly. His dad is a deckhand on a fishing trawler, so his schedule is all over the place.\\\\u201d She stares out at the bay. \\\\u201cHe doesn\\\\u2019t see Marco much in the summer. But he\\\\u2019s not a bad guy.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAren\\\\u2019t exes always bad guys?\\\\u201d Cameron inches a leg toward his board\\\\u2019s edge and dips a foot into the water. It\\\\u2019s still cold, but the sun is so relentless out here, it almost feels good. Avery smiles. \\\\u201cActually, Josh and I are good friends. We never even dated. Just hooked up once my junior year of high school, and poof! There\\\\u2019s a kid binding us for life.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cPoof! Is that what childbirth is like?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cTrust me, you don\\\\u2019t want to know what childbirth is like.\\\\u201d Avery flips over onto her belly and props her chin on her hands. \\\\u201cSorry Marco was such a jerk to you earlier. Honestly, I don\\\\u2019t bring guys home often, and when I have, it hasn\\\\u2019t always gone well . . .\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s okay. He\\\\u2019s fifteen. He\\\\u2019s allowed to be Oscar the Grouch, trash can and all.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cTrash can? His bedroom is more like an actual dumpster! I don\\\\u2019t even go in there anymore.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBelieve me, that\\\\u2019s wise,\\\\u201d Cameron says with a laugh. A speedboat buzzes by farther out on the bay, and after a few moments his board knocks gently into Avery\\\\u2019s, pushed together by a series of small swells. They\\\\u2019ve drifted almost all the way to the pier now. At the very end of the leggy wooden structure, some teens are horsing around, some of them tiptoeing along on the top edge of the slanted railing like it\\\\u2019s a tightrope. Avery\\\\u2019s eyes narrow, watching them. \\\\u201cAt least Marco doesn\\\\u2019t pull idiotic stunts like that.\\\\u201d She shakes her head. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s, like, thirty feet down, depending on the tide. And there are huge, sharp rocks under there. Old pilings. You hit the water wrong, you\\\\u2019re toast.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYikes.\\\\u201d Cameron isn\\\\u2019t a huge fan of heights. Avery paddles into the pier\\\\u2019s shadow where the water turns inky, and Cameron follows. Under here, there\\\\u2019s a cold, oily smell. Kelp clings to the pilings just below water\\\\u2019s surface reflected in cool shades of sepia. Suddenly, Avery says, \\\\u201cI stopped someone from jumping once.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cJumping?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cA woman. From this pier.\\\\u201d She pokes a barnacle-crusted piling with her paddle. \\\\u201cWhoa. How?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI beached my board and went up to help her. Talked to her.\\\\u201d Avery shivers. \\\\u201cTalked her down.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI wouldn\\\\u2019t even know where to start, talking someone down.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cMostly, I just listened.\\\\u201d Avery shrugs. \\\\u201cBut it was weird. I\\\\u2019d never seen her before. Sowell Bay is such a small town. When someone new pops up, it\\\\u2019s an event.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ve noticed.\\\\u201d Cameron can\\\\u2019t help but think of Tova and her gossiping knit-nutters, or whatever they\\\\u2019re called. And about how much Ethan loves to give him the down-low on the town\\\\u2019s drama when he gets home from the store. \\\\u201cSo, what did you do once you got her down?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHelped her to her car. Guess I could\\\\u2019ve called the police, but . . .\\\\u201d She lets out a long breath, then plasters on a forced smile. \\\\u201cAnyway, why am I telling you this? My original point was, Marco would be grounded for life if I found out he was messing around up there.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHe\\\\u2019s lucky to have such a good mom.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah, well, my own mama took no shit from me. I guess it\\\\u2019s how I was raised.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI wish I\\\\u2019d been raised that way.\\\\u201d Eyes focused on the water, Cameron tells Avery about his mother leaving him at Aunt Jeanne\\\\u2019s house and never coming back. \\\\u201cGod, I\\\\u2019m sorry, Cameron.\\\\u201d She lifts her paddle and lands it on the nose of his board, then uses it to pull his closer. After they bump softly, she rests a hand on his knee. Footsteps pound on the pier above them, echoing through the wood. One of the teens lets out a shriek, and for a second Cameron expects a testosterone-fueled body to hurl over the side toward the dark water below. But then, peals of laughter. He shivers. \\\\u201cSometimes I wonder if she\\\\u2019s even still alive.\\\\u201d His voice drops. \\\\u201cBut then I also wonder whether that makes it worse. That she\\\\u2019s been out there, all these years, and never tried to be a parent again, you know?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYour aunt never hears from her, either?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNope.\\\\u201d Avery runs her finger along the edge of her board, leaving a trail of little water droplets behind it. \\\\u201cThat must have been really hard for your mother.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHard for her?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cTo leave, I mean. To leave you with someone who could do better.\\\\u201d Cameron snorts softly, about to retort, but he can\\\\u2019t quite find the words. Of course he\\\\u2019s heard that sort of line before, people saying that his mother ditching him with Aunt Jeanne was a blessing in disguise. An act of mercy, even. Even Aunt Jeanne herself used to say that. Those comments always seemed like grade-A bullshit, hollow platitudes meant to make him feel better. But somehow, hearing them from Avery, the words feel real and solid. When he was younger, he used to imagine what life with his mother would have been like, but in those fantasies, the mom figure was always . . . well, a typical mom. Like some version of Elizabeth\\\\u2019s mom, with her aerobics videos and famous recipe for butterscotch cookies. Naturally, it hurt like hell to mourn the loss of that. But maybe Avery is right. It never could have existed. \\\\u201cI went through some shit when I found out I was pregnant with Marco,\\\\u201d Avery goes on. \\\\u201cDecisions, you know. And every single person in my big obnoxious family had an opinion on the matter. Thought I\\\\u2019d be ruining my life, no matter what I did.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cPeople and their opinions generally suck,\\\\u201d Cameron says. \\\\u201cAnd for the record, you\\\\u2019ve done an amazing job with your life.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, yeah, I kind of have, right?\\\\u201d A half-modest smile flashes across her face before it turns serious again. \\\\u201cBut back then, I was seventeen. I had no idea what I was doing. I decided to keep the pregnancy, but there were moments when I thought it might be better\\\\u2014for Marco, if not for me\\\\u2014to let someone else have him.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou thought about giving him up for adoption.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAlmost went through with it.\\\\u201d She hugs her knees to her chest. \\\\u201cMy family, they all kept saying it was best for everyone. And in my case, they were wrong, you know? But I understood their argument. It can be the right decision.\\\\u201d Cameron sees again, in his mind, the self-assured way Avery ruffled her son\\\\u2019s hair. Took no shit about dirty socks on the floor. He can barely scrape up enough money to buy a crappy camper with money siphoned from his overly generous aunt, and meanwhile, Avery has raised a whole entire human being, not to mention buying a house and a paddleboard store, and doesn\\\\u2019t think twice about giving away a twenty-dollar jar of organic Vaseline, for free, to a schmuck like him. A sucker for injured creatures, indeed. \\\\u201cMy friends Elizabeth and Brad are having a baby,\\\\u201d he says, although he\\\\u2019s not sure why, because it\\\\u2019s kind of out of nowhere. \\\\u201cBest friends, I mean. We\\\\u2019ve all been tight for a long time.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThat\\\\u2019s wonderful,\\\\u201d Avery says. \\\\u201cIt is. It\\\\u2019s amazing.\\\\u201d Cameron nods slowly. \\\\u201cI mean, they have no clue what they\\\\u2019re doing, but I guess they\\\\u2019ll figure it out.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cFor sure. Billions of people have figured it out.\\\\u201d Cameron smiles. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019d like them. I mean, Brad is a dork, but he\\\\u2019s a solid dude. And I think you and Elizabeth would be good friends.\\\\u201d He runs a hand through the cold, dark water. \\\\u201cI wish you could meet them. I mean, someday.\\\\u201d He rubs the back of his neck, which is suddenly hot, flushed. \\\\u201cSure, I\\\\u2019d love that.\\\\u201d Avery rises to her knees and dips a paddle. \\\\u201cLet\\\\u2019s head back, huh? It\\\\u2019s chilly under here.\\\\u201d An hour later, as they swing back around the tip of the jetty, that same aggrieved seagull gives them another hard glare. \\\\u201cCheer up, mate,\\\\u201d says Cameron, chuckling to himself. Ethan is rubbing off on him. The gull rears back, thrusts open its beak, and lets out the loudest, angriest squawk a bird has ever made. All it takes is his one foot slipping back a couple of inches, weight shifted, and with a massive splash Cameron is in the water. Again. Coming up with a gasp, he yells, \\\\u201cHoly shit, that\\\\u2019s still cold!\\\\u201d Where did Avery go? Treading in the freezing water, he swivels his head around looking for her. He probably looks like a goddamn seal. Or a sea lion? He can\\\\u2019t remember which pinniped is native to the Pacific Northwest. Is the cold taking over his brain? Hypothermia? \\\\u201cNeed a hand?\\\\u201d There she is, paddling toward him on her board. She\\\\u2019s gasping. With laughter. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ve got it,\\\\u201d he grumbles, attempting to hoist himself back onto his slippery board. Just as he gets a knee up, it shoots away, sending him back underwater. When he resurfaces, Avery is letting loose a string of incomprehensible instructions. \\\\u201cShift your weight, brace your knee, tighten your core, no, your other knee, that elbow, grip with that hand, no, your right hand, no, your other right hand . . .\\\\u201d He manages to flop up onto the board, and is sitting there like an asshole, dripping and panting, when the seagull lifts off the jetty and glides past them. \\\\u201cYou feathered little jerk,\\\\u201d he mutters, shaking his fist. Avery has finally recovered from her laughter. She wipes her eyes with the hem of her shirt. \\\\u201cSo close to the shore! You almost made it.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cGee, thanks for believing in me.\\\\u201d A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. \\\\u201cWell, since I\\\\u2019m already wet . . .\\\\u201d He dives into the bracing water and beelines for her board. Her warnings are muffled by the water as he gives the board a solid shove. She crashes into him, squealing and pushing him under, as the board pops back out few feet away. He surfaces, grinning. \\\\u201cNow we\\\\u2019re both wet!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou are so dead.\\\\u201d Her voice is sandpaper, but her eyes are sparkling. He winds an arm around her waist and pulls her into him, her body practically weightless underwater. She wraps her legs around his hips. It\\\\u2019s hot as hell, even though he\\\\u2019s numb from the armpits down at this point. \\\\u201cYou didn\\\\u2019t pack a change of clothes,\\\\u201d he says, teeth chattering. \\\\u201cI noticed you didn\\\\u2019t bring a bag.\\\\u201d His lips are a breath away from hers. She whispers, \\\\u201cBecause I never fall.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cGood thing I\\\\u2019ve got blankets in the back of the camper.\\\\u201d Laughing, she pulls back a bit. \\\\u201cCameron, if you try some line about us needing to get out of these wet clothes . . .\\\\u201d He feigns offense. \\\\u201cWell, we do, don\\\\u2019t we?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAnd if you say one damn word about how you\\\\u2019re glad we brought your camper here, because Marco and his friends are back at my house . . .\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell? Aren\\\\u2019t you glad about that?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYep.\\\\u201d She draws herself close again and kisses him, softly at first. Her lips are salty, shivering, but as she opens her mouth to his, the inside is warm, sweet, intoxicating. Then, with a swoosh, she jets away. As she grabs hold of her loose board, she flashes him a daring grin that almost sends him off the edge as she says, \\\\u201cLast one back to the shore is a rotten egg.\\\\u201d \\\\n There Was a Girl There was a girl. Like a noxious ivy, this notion winds its way around every aspect of Tova\\\\u2019s daily routine. When she\\\\u2019s making up her bed in the morning: There was a girl. Waiting for the coffee to percolate: There was a girl. Dusting the baseboards (because it\\\\u2019s a Wednesday, after all, even when the world\\\\u2019s been tipped upside down): A girl, a girl, a girl. Even though he was very popular, Erik was selective in who he chose to date. There were a handful of sweethearts throughout high school, and the police spoke at length with all of them. Not as suspects, of course\\\\u2014they never said that\\\\u2014but as people who had once been close to Erik, who might have known what he was doing that night, whether he was playing some game or running away from home or . . . There was Ashley Barrington, whom Erik took to the Sowell Bay High School homecoming dance the previous autumn, but she knew nothing, she\\\\u2019d been out of town with her family on a cruise the night it happened. Jenny-Lynn Mason, his prom date from earlier that spring, was also of no help, as she had attended a social gathering down in Seattle that evening and stayed the night at a friend\\\\u2019s there. Then there was Stephanie Lee. When the police prodded, Tova had identified her as a classmate who had come around the house several times that spring for so-called study dates. Stephanie said she was home, asleep. At first, the detective raised a brow at this, but eventually determined that it was true, and that the young woman couldn\\\\u2019t offer any information. There was a girl. How did she not know? Tova\\\\u2019s eyes seem to tangle with themselves as she tries to focus on the newspaper laid out in front of her with the daily crossword. Five letters: A daredevil\\\\u2019s move. She knows the word is \\\\u201cSTUNT,\\\\u201d but her pencil wants to write A-G-I-R-L. Or better yet, the girl\\\\u2019s name. What was her name? Is it buried in her own memory? A name she\\\\u2019d heard but not attached any importance to? Had Adam Wright managed to remember it? Was he even trying? She had tried to look him up in the phone book, but he wasn\\\\u2019t listed, which probably made sense because he just moved back to town. And anyhow, perhaps he wouldn\\\\u2019t even remember their conversation from the Elland Chophouse. He had consumed quite a few martinis. This, too, nags at Tova. What does anyone really know about Adam Wright? Who says the liquor-fueled memory of a lunchtime lush could be counted upon? He was a school buddy of Erik\\\\u2019s, but not a close friend. He said so himself. She picks at a peeling edge of Formica on the corner of her kitchen table. A terrible habit, to pick at such a thing. She ought to superglue it down right away. But she keeps picking. Why is everything coming apart at the seams? If she hadn\\\\u2019t taken her crossword down to Hamilton Park that day, had that moment of connection over Debbie Harry of Blondie, of all things, good heavens . . . would he have recognized her at the Elland Chophouse? Why is he only now remembering these details about that night? Why did Erik take that boat out? Why can\\\\u2019t Adam remember the girl\\\\u2019s name? Why didn\\\\u2019t Erik tell her about the girl? Why is all of this coming up now? \\\\u201cWhy?\\\\u201d she says to Cat, who is parked in a patch of sunshine on the linoleum. Cat licks a paw and squints. It has been years since Tova has juggled so many of these Erik-related questions. It exhausts her, to the point where she lies down on the davenport after lunch for a nap, which is something she hasn\\\\u2019t done in years. THE PHONE\\\\u2019S RING slices through her sleep. Tova fumbles the receiver, almost dropping it, and croaks, \\\\u201cHello?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI have great news!\\\\u201d It\\\\u2019s a woman\\\\u2019s voice, and for the smallest second Tova\\\\u2019s mind flashes to a girl. But it\\\\u2019s Jessica Snell, the realtor. \\\\u201cOh?\\\\u201d Tova sits up and rubs her temple. \\\\u201cWe\\\\u2019ve got an offer. Ten thousand above asking!\\\\u201d Jessica Snell proceeds to spew a litany of details about the buyers and their offer and instructions about what Tova should do next if she would like to accept. \\\\u201cMind you, we haven\\\\u2019t even done the open house yet, so I wouldn\\\\u2019t blame you if you want to hold out . . . but I can tell you, this is a good offer. We priced it aggressively. We could counter to take it off the market before the open house. What do you think?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYes, yes.\\\\u201d Tova fetches a sheaf of newspaper and a pen and jots down the numbers in the margin next to yesterday\\\\u2019s half-completed crossword. She simply hasn\\\\u2019t had it in her to finish the puzzles lately. Somehow it feels less important than it used to. \\\\u201cYes, let\\\\u2019s counter.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cGreat. I\\\\u2019ll email you the paperwork. Let\\\\u2019s see, what\\\\u2019s your . . . We don\\\\u2019t have your email on file?\\\\u201d Tova sniffs. \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t have email.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh, that\\\\u2019s right, you brought the seller\\\\u2019s agreement to my office,\\\\u201d Snell continues without missing a beat. \\\\u201cNo problem, we can do it that way. I\\\\u2019ll drop a hard copy of the counteroffer by your house this evening, okay?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cVery well.\\\\u201d After hanging up, Tova ratchets out a breath. They\\\\u2019ll accept the counter. A contract will be signed. The house will be sold. In the kitchen, she pours a cup of cold coffee from the percolator and zaps it in the microwave before heading out the back door. On the back porch, Cat is lounging in a patch of sunlight, and Tova lets out a bitter sigh at the sight of him. When she sits on the small garden bench, he leaps up to her lap, plants his paws on her chest, and butts his head against the underside of her chin. \\\\u201cWhat will we do with you, little fellow?\\\\u201d Tova strokes the extra-soft patches of fur behind his ears. \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t suppose you can go back to living outside.\\\\u201d In response, he purrs. Perhaps a problem to be solved another day. THERE WAS A girl. The idea of a girl continues to peck at the perimeter of Tova\\\\u2019s consciousness as she signs Jessica Snell\\\\u2019s paperwork. It tap, tap, taps on her brain as she makes supper. It hovers around her like a persistent fly during the short drive down the hill to the aquarium. The turn into the parking lot comes out of nowhere, and Tova almost misses it. The turn she must\\\\u2019ve made at least a thousand times. Madness. This is how it begins. She\\\\u2019s losing her mind. Because of an offhand remark from a fellow with too many martinis in him. Cameron seems like he\\\\u2019s in another world tonight, and the two of them work in silence: she fills the bucket with vinegar and water, while he rinses and wrings the mop. Finally, as they\\\\u2019re working their way along the easternmost side of the building, she asks, \\\\u201cAny word from your father, dear?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNope.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m sorry to hear that.\\\\u201d She goes on, lifting her voice to an unnaturally cheery tone. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019ll find him, eventually, and when you do, he\\\\u2019ll be tickled you did.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah, maybe.\\\\u201d He works ahead of her, around the curve. She catches up, pausing to peer into the thick front glass of Marcellus\\\\u2019s tank. He drifts out from behind his rock, blinking in greeting before pressing one of his tentacles against the glass. His perfectly round suckers look like miniature porcelain dinner plates for an army of tiny dolls as he squelches along the smooth surface. An idea strikes her. Something to bring the boy out of his daze. \\\\n An Unexpected Treasure Let\\\\u2019s use the other stool, shall we?\\\\u201d Cameron watches skeptically as Tova drags the old, broken step stool out of the way and replaces it with the new one. Someone should deal with that busted old thing. Maybe he\\\\u2019ll haul it out to the dumpster on his way out tonight. \\\\u201cLast time he hid,\\\\u201d Cameron points out. \\\\u201cWhat makes you think tonight\\\\u2019s any different?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHe\\\\u2019s in a better mood tonight.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh, come on. A better mood?\\\\u201d Even the Octopus Whisperer herself can\\\\u2019t discern an invertebrate\\\\u2019s moods. Can she? Cameron peers into the tank. Marcellus looks how he always looks, floating around like some weird alien, his unnerving eye moving like it\\\\u2019s got a mind of its own. It wouldn\\\\u2019t shock him if someone cut Marcellus open and found his insides full of wires and circuits. A spying sea robot, dispatched from a distant galaxy. Isn\\\\u2019t there a movie with that plot? If not, there should be. Maybe he could write the screenplay. He hesitates before the stool, glancing at the tank next door. Wolf eels. Seriously, the ugliest fish Cameron has ever seen. Two of them are out now, parked next to a rock, their terrifying teeth jutting up from twin underbites. \\\\u201cHow about we play with them instead? They look about as friendly.\\\\u201d Ignoring his sarcastic comment, Tova climbs up on the stool and dips her hand into the tank. Cameron watches as Marcellus winds his arm around her wrist. Tova touches the top of his mantle, and the creature seems to lean into her hand, in a way that reminds him of how Katie\\\\u2019s ridiculous little dog used to demand her attention when it sat on her lap. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re going to say hello to my friend Cameron now, and this time, you\\\\u2019re going to be friendly,\\\\u201d Tova tells the octopus. She motions Cameron to replace her on the stool. He rolls his eyes. But the octopus seems to listen and releases his grip on her arm before turning his inscrutable eye on Cameron, hovering expectantly in his cold blue tank. \\\\u201cOkay,\\\\u201d he mutters, shrugging off his favorite hoodie and tossing it on the counter before climbing up. He dips his hand in. The water is bracing. Worse than Puget Sound itself, the coldness of which Cameron now considers himself an expert on, after his outing with Avery. The creature trails an arm upward, brushing his hand. \\\\u201cAck!\\\\u201d Instinctively, he yanks his hand from the water, which draws a gentle chuckle from Tova, who watches from below. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s quite all right to be a bit alarmed,\\\\u201d she says. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m not,\\\\u201d Cameron grunts. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s just really cold.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cTry again,\\\\u201d she encourages. When he does, he forces himself to keep his hand in the water this time, allowing Marcellus to prod at the veins on the back of his hand, to explore the tops of his knuckles. Then, in an instant, the octopus wraps the end of its arm around his wrist. Each individual sucker feels like its own tiny creature, and before Cameron knows it, it feels like there are hundreds of them crawling up his arm. To his surprise, he laughs. Tova laughs, too. \\\\u201cIt feels funny, doesn\\\\u2019t it?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah.\\\\u201d He looks down into the water. Marcellus\\\\u2019s eye is gleaming, somehow, like he\\\\u2019s laughing along with them. The creature\\\\u2019s muscular tentacle wraps tighter, up to his elbow now. How strong is this thing, anyway? Cameron is so preoccupied with the circulation in his arm that he doesn\\\\u2019t notice the creature\\\\u2019s other appendage winding around behind him until Marcellus taps him on the opposite shoulder. He whirls around, turning the wrong way, of course. Had the octopus intended that? Like a joke? \\\\u201cAh, he got you!\\\\u201d Tova\\\\u2019s eyes sparkle. \\\\u201cMy brother used to fool his nephew, my son, with that one. Oldest trick in the book.\\\\u201d The octopus unwinds. As Cameron steps down from the stool, he examines the sucker marks along the underside of his arm. \\\\u201cThey\\\\u2019ll fade quickly,\\\\u201d Tova assures him. \\\\u201cYours didn\\\\u2019t,\\\\u201d Cameron points out. \\\\u201cMy skin is seventy years old, dear. Yours will mend more quickly.\\\\u201d What does it matter? The marks look kind of cool, like a tattoo. Maybe Avery will be impressed. He grabs a roll of paper towels from the shelf and dries off his arm. He\\\\u2019s about to turn and shoot it, free-throw-style, at the trash can in the corner of the tiny pump room, when something in the octopus\\\\u2019s tank catches his eye. Something shiny, barely peeking through the sand near the big rock behind which the creature disappeared a minute ago. \\\\u201cWhat\\\\u2019s that thing?\\\\u201d he asks Tova. She looks up at him, confused. \\\\u201cThat shiny thing.\\\\u201d He ducks down and peers through the glass, and Tova does the same, adjusting her glasses. \\\\u201cGood heavens.\\\\u201d Tova frowns. \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t know.\\\\u201d As if on cue, one of the octopus\\\\u2019s arms snakes out from the rocky den and prods the sand with its tip, reminding Cameron of Aunt Jeanne when she falls asleep on the sofa and loses her glasses and has to feel around, half-blind, in the cushions. \\\\u201cI think he\\\\u2019s looking for it,\\\\u201d Cameron says, not quite believing the words coming out of his mouth. Was the creature actually listening to them? Before Tova can reply, the octopus finally lands on the mystery object, and the sand is swept away. Cameron squints through the glass. It\\\\u2019s a teardrop-shaped silver thing, an inch wide, maybe. A fishing lure? No, an earring. A woman\\\\u2019s earring. With a whoosh, the octopus sweeps the earring into the den. For some reason, Tova throws back her head and laughs. \\\\u201cWhat\\\\u2019s so funny?\\\\u201d She clasps a hand to her chest. \\\\u201cI should say, I do believe our Marcellus is something of a treasure hunter.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cA treasure hunter?\\\\u201d As Cameron follows Tova out of the pump room, she tells him some story about her lost house key that the octopus apparently dug up from his tank and returned to her one night. Cameron nods along, but he\\\\u2019s not sure he\\\\u2019s buying it. Tova\\\\u2019s a nice lady, but in spite of what he\\\\u2019s seen tonight, some of this octopus shit just seems crazy. Eventually, they resume their work in comfortable silence. Cameron lets his mind wander again, replaying his night with Avery, the way her hair smelled like some fruity shampoo on his pillow. He won\\\\u2019t check his phone again, seeing if she\\\\u2019s messaged him back. Nope. And he won\\\\u2019t go by the paddle shop on his way home tonight, even though he knows it\\\\u2019ll be closed. Definitely not. These are the promises he\\\\u2019s making to himself as he absently collects the trash and goes to replace the can liner. \\\\u201cDon\\\\u2019t forget to hook it all the way around,\\\\u201d Tova calls from across the hallway. How had she even seen him? Does she have eyes on the back of her head? Maybe she\\\\u2019s a robot spy from a distant galaxy. That would make a great twist in his screenplay. He points to the rim of the trash can. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s all the way around. Look.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cPull it down farther. It\\\\u2019ll only take an extra moment.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s good enough!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019ll start to slip down when it gets full.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, when that happens, someone can fix it.\\\\u201d Tova turns to him, arms folded. \\\\u201cDidn\\\\u2019t you mother teach you to do things right the first time?\\\\u201d Cameron stares at her. \\\\u201cI never had a mother.\\\\u201d Tova\\\\u2019s color drains. \\\\u201cShe was . . . I mean, she struggled. With addiction. I haven\\\\u2019t seen her since I was nine.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh dear. I\\\\u2019m sorry, Cameron.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s okay,\\\\u201d he grumbles while yanking the liner all the way on, hating the fact that it did only take an extra moment. When he looks up, Tova is wiping fervently at some nonexistent spot on the glass, refusing to meet his eye. \\\\u201cReally, it\\\\u2019s okay,\\\\u201d Cameron insists. \\\\u201cHow would you have known?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt is certainly not okay. I ought to be more careful with my words.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNo, I shouldn\\\\u2019t have chomped your head off about it. I\\\\u2019m just tired.\\\\u201d Cameron lets out a puffy breath. \\\\u201cTerry asked for extra cod for the sharks today, and Mackenzie was out, sick, so I covered the desk between loads, and the phone kept ringing, and . . . it\\\\u2019s just been a long day.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re working very hard here.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI guess I am.\\\\u201d The words seep through him, slow and warm like hot chicken broth on a cold day. It might be the nicest compliment anyone has ever given him. \\\\u201cIndeed.\\\\u201d Tova smiles at him, gives a tiny approving nod before resuming her wiping down of the glass tank. \\\\u201cThe truth is, I didn\\\\u2019t have a mom, but I had an aunt Jeanne,\\\\u201d he says tentatively. He picks up the mop and starts to run it along the baseboard. \\\\u201cShe\\\\u2019s the one who raised me after my mom took off.\\\\u201d Tova looks up. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019d love to hear about her.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cShe\\\\u2019s one of the most amazing people on the planet, but you might not like her.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhy on earth wouldn\\\\u2019t I like her?\\\\u201d A conspiratorial grin spreads across Cameron\\\\u2019s face. \\\\u201cPretty sure she\\\\u2019s never had a clue about the proper way to put in trash can liners.\\\\u201d Tova\\\\u2019s laugh echoes down the empty hallway. \\\\n Day 1,349 of My Captivity THEY DO NOT SEE IT. For weeks, they have worked together. How do they not see it? I have searched my Collection many times over, considering whether any of these objects might point them in the right direction. A useless endeavor. And now my Collection is a mess. It spills out of my den, sloppy and disorganized. Dangerous. My Collection shall be exposed next time my tank is cleaned, if I am not more careful. Although I fear I may no longer be around next time my tank is cleaned. I must persevere, for their sake. I cannot bear to leave this story unfinished, as it is now. As I fear it will always be, if I do not intervene to help them realize. Human gestation is approximately two hundred and eighty days. Conception must have occurred very close to the night of the boy\\\\u2019s accident. But the mother does not realize she is carrying an embryo until weeks later. Months, sometimes, in such cases where producing offspring was not planned. I have seen this scenario play out countless times over the course of my captivity, while observing the patrons that come and go. If Tova knew his date of birth. His last name. Would that be enough? I must try. Why do I so deeply care that she knows? I am not entirely certain. But my own end nears, along with her time here. If they do not figure it out soon, everyone involved will be left with a . . . hole. As a general rule, I like holes. A hole at the top of my tank gives me freedom. But I do not like the hole in her heart. She only has one, not three, like me. Tova\\\\u2019s heart. I will do everything I can to help her fill it. \\\\n Some Trees The tower of tea towels threatens to topple as Tova adds another to the top. Stacks of this sort cover the floorboards of her attic. Above, the polished beams are bathed, cathedral-like, in the afternoon light streaming through the large picture window. Tova\\\\u2019s disposition, however, is less sunny. She cannot stand piles. Will was a notorious maker of piles. Receipts, stale mail advertisements, magazines he\\\\u2019d already read twice, scraps of paper upon which he\\\\u2019d jotted some note or another that even he couldn\\\\u2019t decipher. In Will\\\\u2019s view these things needed to be kept. When Tova would nag him about the clutter, he\\\\u2019d simply collect the detritus into a stack, square off the corners, and plop it on the edge of some counter or credenza, with a satisfied remark. See? Nice and tidy. Tova would wait until he dozed off in the recliner, and then, with a sigh, would shepherd the junk to its proper place, which was occasionally the filing cabinet, but more often the trash bin. When Will\\\\u2019s cancer generated enough paperwork to overstuff the small cabinet, Tova bought another, expanding her filing system so each page from the insurance company, every medical bill, had a proper home. Caring for her husband as the cancer worked its way through his organs may have taken over her life for a time, but she would not tolerate the paperwork taking over her kitchen counters. \\\\u201cQuite a disaster, isn\\\\u2019t it?\\\\u201d Tova directs this question at Cat, who patters up the attic stairs. A gray tail appears a moment later, popping up like a question mark behind a box. The cat winds his slender body between the stacks with impossible grace, arriving at a patch of sunshine near Tova\\\\u2019s side without disturbing so much as a speck of dust. He casts a bored glare before lowering onto his side and closing his yellow eyes. Tova smiles, allowing a smidge of her crossness to melt away. \\\\u201cI suppose you tromped all the way up here to nap on the job, didn\\\\u2019t you?\\\\u201d She strokes Cat\\\\u2019s side, which starts to rumble, purring. The room is divided into three categories. It\\\\u2019s a start, anyhow. A system. Tomorrow, Barb and Janice are coming over along with Janice\\\\u2019s son, Timothy, and two or three of his friends. Voluntary labor for all of this sorting and hauling. Tova promised to order pizza for everyone, even though eating delivery food when her freezer is full of casseroles seems indulgent. But she does need the help, and better for it to come from people she knows rather than allowing a team of strangers to descend upon her family\\\\u2019s heirlooms. Besides, Barb and Janice have been calling nonstop, offering to help. This will mollify them. The first category of items, and by far the smallest, is for things she\\\\u2019ll take to Charter Village: a couple of Erik\\\\u2019s old toy cars, a handful of photographs, what\\\\u2019s left of her mother\\\\u2019s porcelain tea set, which she fancies she\\\\u2019ll take coffee in once in a while. It\\\\u2019s quite a shame so much of this has gone unused for years. Decades. The slip of tissue that had wrapped the saucer gets wadded into a ball and tossed into the section nearest the door: trash. Here, too, goes a large volume of photographs and other memorabilia. Although it feels odd to discard these things, so meticulously saved, where else could they go? Janice suggested a storage unit, but why? There is no one left to want them. Then there\\\\u2019s the largest pile: the donation pile. A truck from the local secondhand shop is scheduled to do a pickup next week. Most of Erik\\\\u2019s toys are in this pile; perhaps they\\\\u2019ll be played with by someone else\\\\u2019s grandchildren. Alongside the old toys is her mother\\\\u2019s bone dinner china. It survived a trip across the ocean, so it should make it through a journey to the thrift shop downtown; whether anyone will buy it once it arrives there is another question. First, she\\\\u2019d tried to give it to Janice, but Janice said she didn\\\\u2019t have room. Barb, likewise, apparently does not have room among her elephants. She had considered offering it to Mackenzie, the girl who works the desk at the aquarium, or even the young lady who runs the paddling shop next to Jessica Snell\\\\u2019s office. But young women don\\\\u2019t want bone china anymore. They\\\\u2019ve no use for old Swedish things. They have their own dinnerware, probably from Ikea. New Swedish things. Also in the donation section are five wooden Dala Horses, straight-legged figurines with their delicate paintwork in shades of yellow and blue and red. The sixth one, the one Erik broke, has been missing for ages. She always thought perhaps she\\\\u2019d find it and repair it, but what good would that do now? She takes one of the horses out and studies it. If she takes them with her, the whole lot will be left at Charter Village for someone else to dispose of. Not even a muckle-toothed lawyer and his private investigator will be able to find someone who wants them. Still, the Dala Horses switch piles. They\\\\u2019ll go with her to the retirement home. She picks up a stack of yellowing pillowcases; her mother had hand-embroidered the roses along the hem. The sheets let off a musty puff as Tova plops them onto the nearest linen pile, to be washed, of course, before being donated. All of these things had been stored away for her to pass along someday, relics to be carried up the branches of the family tree. But the family tree stopped growing long ago, its canopy thinned and frayed, not a single sap springing from the old rotting trunk. Some trees aren\\\\u2019t meant to sprout tender new branches, but to stand stoically on the forest floor, silently decaying. She unfolds the next item to be added to the pile: a linen apron, its sturdy fabric heavily creased. It\\\\u2019s what her mother wore when she baked. Tova holds it close to her face; it smells sour, like flour turned bad. Folding up the fraying strings, she tries to push away the thought that has been nagging at her all afternoon. There was a girl. If Erik hadn\\\\u2019t died that night, the girl might have been a daughter-in-law. Tova herself might have worn this apron when she taught her son\\\\u2019s wife how to make his favorite butter cookies, then passed the apron along to her when the time came. Such nonsensical thinking must stop. Whoever she was, Erik hadn\\\\u2019t cared for her enough to ever mention her. This last thought, as usual, stings. Cat\\\\u2019s afternoon nap comes to an end when a horsefly hurls itself against the window, enticing the sleeping gray hunter into an earnest, if fundamentally pointless, hunt. Tova watches the cat leap at the window, pawing the glass, as the fly hovers, unconcerned, outside. \\\\u201cI know how you feel,\\\\u201d she says, with a sympathetic nod. To know something is there, yet be unable to grasp it, is torture indeed. With an antagonized mewl, Cat stalks off, winding back through the maze of stacks and vanishing down the stairs. Tova glances at her wristwatch: almost five. \\\\u201cSuppose I should think about supper,\\\\u201d she mutters to no one, unfolding her aching joints from her low chair and picking her way through the mess. It isn\\\\u2019t like her to leave a project half-finished. A rush of rebellion swishes through her as she turns her back on the unfinished piles and, stepping lightly on her still-tender ankle, descends the staircase. Egg salad sandwich is tonight\\\\u2019s supper plan . . . again. All week, it\\\\u2019s been nothing but egg salad. (There was a coupon in last week\\\\u2019s circular: buy a dozen, get a dozen free.) Tonight, however, she can\\\\u2019t bear to eat another crumbly sandwich. It\\\\u2019s true, she\\\\u2019s been doing her shopping in the morning lately. Not because she\\\\u2019s avoiding Ethan and his coffee invitation. Of course not. She checks her watch again: she\\\\u2019s fairly certain he\\\\u2019ll be on shift now. She runs a hand down her face, which feels as worn as the relics in her attic, like the dust has settled into every crease and wrinkle. A friendly conversation with the Scot would be nice right now. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m going up to the Shop-Way,\\\\u201d she informs Cat, who is now perched on the arm of the davenport, no doubt depositing a layer of gray fur which Tova will need to slough off with a lint brush later. Oh well. The davenport won\\\\u2019t be coming with her to the Charter Village, of course; it\\\\u2019s far too large. And, in any event, there are worse things than cat hair. A hot, thick haze has settled over Sowell Bay, and a few bored-looking teenagers are encamped on the curb in front of the grocery, languid and lazy under the baking sun, limbs sprawled, reminding Tova of a collection of gangly insects. She tuts as she steps over one young man\\\\u2019s extended leg on her way to the front door. The door chimes, and Ethan Mack glances up from his register with a broad grin and an \\\\u201cAfternoon, Tova!\\\\u201d An icy air-conditioned blast sends gooseflesh shivering up Tova\\\\u2019s arms. She ought to have brought a sweater. \\\\u201cGood day, Ethan.\\\\u201d Suddenly out of any other words, she hurries toward the produce aisle. There, the temperature is even more frigid. She scoops a bagful of gleaming Rainier cherries and places it in her basket, then after a hesitation, fills a second bag. Cherry season is so short, and these do look delightful. \\\\u201cWow, three bucks a pound! What a steal.\\\\u201d Tova turns to find a familiar woman nibbling on a cherry. It takes her a moment to realize it\\\\u2019s Sandy, from Mary Ann\\\\u2019s luncheon. Adam Wright\\\\u2019s lady friend. Unlisted-in-the-phone-book Adam Wright. \\\\u201cOh! Mrs. Sullivan, right?\\\\u201d She swipes juice from her mouth with the back of her hand, then grins sheepishly. \\\\u201cNice to see you again. I guess you caught me in the act, here.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNo need to worry. I won\\\\u2019t alert the authorities,\\\\u201d Tova says with a small smile. \\\\u201cPleasure to see you, Sandy. I hope you and Adam are settling in well.\\\\u201d Guilt nags at her, remembering how she drove through that neighborhood with the newly built homes, hoping she might happen to catch one of them fetching the mail or mowing the lawn. People deserved privacy on their own property. She, of all people, should appreciate that. And, even if she had managed to catch them, who is to say Adam remembers anything more about Erik\\\\u2019s purported sweetheart than he let on at the luncheon? The night in question was, after all, thirty years ago. And yet, Tova cannot shake his words. She shivers again. Sandy plucks another cherry from the pile and pops the stem off. \\\\u201cThanks, and yes, it\\\\u2019s starting to feel like home. It\\\\u2019s just beautiful up here. Great to be out of the hustle and bustle of the city.\\\\u201d Cleaving the cherry in half with her teeth before picking the pit out, she makes a guttural mmmm sound and gives her fingertips a chef\\\\u2019s kiss. \\\\u201cSeriously, you should try one. They\\\\u2019re out of this world.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAye, you there! No free samples!\\\\u201d Ethan booms into the produce section, wagging one of his meaty fingers as he approaches. Sandy\\\\u2019s face goes ashen, but Tova smiles and shakes her head. Ethan\\\\u2019s eyes are sparkling. He gently nudges poor Sandy on the shoulder. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m just pullin\\\\u2019 your chain. Won\\\\u2019t no one be the wiser if you help yourself to a few. Brilliant season for cherries this year, innit?\\\\u201d Sandy releases a nervous laugh. \\\\u201cWhew. I thought I was about to get banished from the town\\\\u2019s only grocery store.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cA\\\\u2019course not. We\\\\u2019re a welcoming lot here, aren\\\\u2019t we, Tova?\\\\u201d Tova inclines her head. \\\\u201cI should say so.\\\\u201d Ethan chuckles and hooks his thumbs into his apron straps. \\\\u201cWell, I\\\\u2019ll leave you ladies to your shopping and sampling. Gimme a shout when you\\\\u2019re ready to check out.\\\\u201d With a cheery nod, he turns and lumbers over to a nearby cantaloupe display, where he busies himself straightening the mountain of melons. \\\\u201cThis town sure has its characters, doesn\\\\u2019t it?\\\\u201d Sandy muses, watching him. \\\\u201cAdam always tried to describe Sowell Bay\\\\u2019s . . . well, uniqueness. But I must admit, I didn\\\\u2019t understand until I came here myself.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYes, well.\\\\u201d Tova studies the tile. She\\\\u2019s probably included as one of the town characters. \\\\u201cYou know, I never thought I\\\\u2019d live in a small town. Everyone\\\\u2019s so friendly, but also so . . . I don\\\\u2019t know. Up in everyone else\\\\u2019s business?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWe prefer to say we care for one another.\\\\u201d A tight, thin laugh escapes Sandy\\\\u2019s coral-colored lips as she lofts a bag of cherries onto a nearby produce scale. \\\\u201cAdam insists I\\\\u2019ll get used to it.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m sure Adam is correct.\\\\u201d Tova forces a smile. What do people gab about at Charter Village? Will she be a character there, too? Perhaps she\\\\u2019ll meet someone who was friendly with Lars. Would that be a good thing or a bad thing? \\\\u201cSpeaking of Adam.\\\\u201d Sandy leans in and shifts in her jeweled sandals, as if, suddenly, she\\\\u2019d rather not be in the produce section of the town\\\\u2019s only grocery store right now. \\\\u201cI feel like I should apologize for his behavior at the chophouse. Drinking like that, at noon! But he\\\\u2019s been under so much stress, with the move, and at work, and\\\\u2014\\\\u201d Tova cuts in, \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s quite all right, dear.\\\\u201d She means it. \\\\u201cRight.\\\\u201d Sandy still looks deeply abashed. \\\\u201cBut there\\\\u2019s one other thing. About that . . . conversation.\\\\u201d Tova waits for her to continue, uncomfortably aware of her heart\\\\u2019s increased pace. \\\\u201cHe remembered her name. The girl your son was seeing, I mean.\\\\u201d The piles of cherries blur into a swirling sea, pink and red. Tova leans on a produce scale, bracing herself against this sudden dizziness, her brain now running mad circles now around the words The girl has a name. \\\\u201cMrs. Sullivan? Are you okay?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cQuite,\\\\u201d Tova hears herself rasp. \\\\u201cOkay.\\\\u201d Sandy hesitates, sounding unconvinced. \\\\u201cAdam didn\\\\u2019t think I should say anything, but I just figured if I were in your shoes . . . I mean, if I had lost my child and there was bit of information I hadn\\\\u2019t known, even something small . . .\\\\u201d You would want to know. Tova allows her eyelids to squeeze shut, trying to slow the spinning. \\\\u201cAnyway, her name was Daphne, or so Adam said. He couldn\\\\u2019t remember her last name, but he did say she went to his high school.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cDaphne,\\\\u201d Tova repeats. The name is thick and lumpy on her tongue, like an old piece of chewing gum. A long moment passes. Finally, Sandy murmurs, \\\\u201cWell, now you know, I guess.\\\\u201d Tova watches her pick up her grocery basket. The skin is pulled tight around the woman\\\\u2019s watering eyes. \\\\u201cThank you, Sandy.\\\\u201d With an awkward nod and a quick touch on Tova\\\\u2019s arm, Sandy ducks away toward the front register. From the corner of her eye, Tova catches Ethan staring at her. He closes the gap between them, still holding a cantaloupe in each hand. \\\\u201cWhat was that Sandy Hewitt just said to you?\\\\u201d Tova frowns, suddenly feeling like a rosebud under a cold dark sky. Pinched shut. \\\\u201cIt was nothing.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cShe said a name.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s long-ago nonsense.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cShe said Daphne, didn\\\\u2019t she?\\\\u201d Tova holds up her bags of cherries. \\\\u201cI think I\\\\u2019m ready to check out. Can you take these to the register and ring them, please?\\\\u201d THERE WILL BE no supper tonight. Two pounds of peak-season Rainier cherries, along with a hasty collection of other grocery items, are abandoned on the counter in Tova\\\\u2019s kitchen. Next to them, her pocketbook lies askance, right where it was carelessly flung, instead of in its proper place on the hook by the door. Upstairs in the attic, Tova plows through the piles of linen and china, barely aware of the mess now. On the last shelf by the window, bottom row, is the book: Sowell Bay High School, Class of 1989. Thirty years ago, she had pored through this volume, searching for something. Anything. And it would be remiss to leave out that, on occasion, she or Will had revisited the yearbook in the decades between, whenever some small spring leak of nostalgia broke through their hardened dyke. She has every photo of Erik included between its covers committed to memory. But Tova isn\\\\u2019t looking for Erik this time. Her mouth feels numb and dry as she flips to the index. The print is so tiny that she needs her readers; her fumbling fingers find them in the breast pocket of her blouse and jam them onto her face. She yanks in a hard gulp of air when she sees the name, and it stays there, caught in her chest, as she runs her finger down the columns of type, devouring every last word, until finally she reaches the end of the Zs and releases the ragged breath. There is only one. Cassmore, Daphne A. Pages 14, 63, and 148. \\\\n An Impossible Jam Stop giving me that look.\\\\u201d In response, while still glaring at Cameron, the octopus hooks the tip of an arm through the tiny gap over the pump filter in the back of the tank. A threat. \\\\u201cI know you can hear me.\\\\u201d Cameron rubs his forehead wearily. What is he even saying? Octopuses can\\\\u2019t understand English. Or any other language. Right? \\\\u201cYou hungry, bro? Where were you earlier when I was circling the building with a bucket of mackerel? You\\\\u2019re too good for that?\\\\u201d The creature blinks at him, all innocent and coy. His arm, just the tip, slips through the gap. \\\\u201cOh no you don\\\\u2019t. No escapades tonight.\\\\u201d The mop clatters to the floor in the curved hallway as Cameron dashes off toward the pump room around back. He should fix the stupid tank so it can\\\\u2019t pop open, in spite of what Tova says about the monster\\\\u2019s so-called need for freedom. It\\\\u2019s not like she\\\\u2019s even here. Which is weird. He wouldn\\\\u2019t have guessed she\\\\u2019d be the type to ghost, but as the night goes on, it\\\\u2019s becoming increasingly clear she\\\\u2019s not going to show. Maybe that\\\\u2019s why the damn kraken looks so incensed. \\\\u201cStay,\\\\u201d he commands, looping a scrap of twine he found on the counter through the slit in the lid, then around the support post next to the tank, and tying a firm knot. The octopus drifts toward the gap, gaze glued to Cameron\\\\u2019s handiwork. Then he fixes his withering eye on Cameron for a long, hard moment before jetting down into his den, leaving a flush of bubbles in his wake. \\\\u201cGood night to you, too,\\\\u201d Cameron mutters. The tiniest bit of guilt nags him, but it\\\\u2019s for the best. The thought of dealing with a roaming octopus without Tova here to help him is honestly terrifying. Which must be why he jumps out of his skin when something dings. It\\\\u2019s his phone, his new one. He\\\\u2019s not quite used to the sounds it makes yet. He couldn\\\\u2019t bring himself to spring for the super-high-end one, but this one is decent. At least the battery lasts more than, like, ten minutes. Could it be Avery again? His pulse thrums just thinking about it. They\\\\u2019ve been trading flirty texts all day. But when he checks, the text isn\\\\u2019t from Avery. It\\\\u2019s from Elizabeth, and it just says: Call me. The baby. When was it due? Seems like yesterday he arrived in Sowell Bay, but it\\\\u2019s been two months. Propping his phone on the supply cart, he pops in his earbuds and calls her back. \\\\u201cHey,\\\\u201d comes Elizabeth\\\\u2019s immediate answer. \\\\u201cLizard-breath? Are you okay?\\\\u201d Cameron realizes his heart is still racing. A lot of shit can go wrong, having a baby. But she laughs softly at his tone of voice, which probably means she isn\\\\u2019t bleeding out in a hospital bed. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m fine, Camel-tron. Well, mostly. My doctor put me on bed rest.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBed rest?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah, I was having contractions. And they want the alien to cook for a few more weeks.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYikes. Well, you don\\\\u2019t want a half-cooked alien.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSo now I\\\\u2019m stuck in bed.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou mean you\\\\u2019re literally lying around all day? Sounds amazing.\\\\u201d Cameron wrings the mop. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s horrible! I\\\\u2019m so bored.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAt least Brad\\\\u2019s waiting on you hand and foot, right?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHe tried to make me a grilled cheese sandwich and the fire department came.\\\\u201d In his earbuds, Elizabeth laughs, and the sound seems so close. Suddenly, an awful, hollow feeling settles in the pit of Cameron\\\\u2019s stomach. \\\\u201cAnyway,\\\\u201d Elizabeth goes on. \\\\u201cI was watching some show on the travel channel the other day. Because this is how I spend my days now. I swear I watch fourteen hours of pointless television a day.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cStill sounds pretty awesome,\\\\u201d Cameron says. He bends down to pick up a candy wrapper from the floor. \\\\u201cIt sucks. But anyway. Simon Brinks was on the show. They were interviewing him about trends in vacation home sales or some boring thing. I hadn\\\\u2019t been paying much attention, until I heard the name. It made me think of you. Thought I\\\\u2019d call and see how it\\\\u2019s going.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNot making much progress on the Simon Brinks front, unfortunately.\\\\u201d Cameron fills her in on his dead ends so far. \\\\u201cDo you like it up there, at least?\\\\u201d The question is punctuated by an alarming grunt. \\\\u201cSorry, my back is killing me. I had to turn over. Just imagine a whale trying to flop itself over on a beach.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cDamn, Lizard-breath. That\\\\u2019s quite an image.\\\\u201d He laughs. \\\\u201cBut yeah, I guess I like it all right.\\\\u201d He pauses. \\\\u201cI met a girl.\\\\u201d Elizabeth squeals, and the next section of tile-mopping goes by quickly as Cameron gives her the PG version of his evolving relationship with Avery. By the time they hang up, he\\\\u2019s looped all the way around, back at the octopus exhibit again. The big fella is hanging out in the lower corner of the tank, watching him as its arms waft lightly in the water. \\\\u201cGood boy. Good octopus,\\\\u201d he mumbles. Keys jingle from the front lobby. Tova? He\\\\u2019s surprised at how happy this makes him. But the footsteps that follow are too heavy, their clip too quick. After a moment, Terry comes striding around the bend. Cameron tries to hide his disappointment. \\\\u201cHey, kiddo.\\\\u201d The boss man smiles broadly. \\\\u201cEverything going okay?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah, everything\\\\u2019s great.\\\\u201d Cameron lifts his chin, trying to look professional. Good thing he didn\\\\u2019t get caught talking to Elizabeth on the phone. \\\\u201cExcellent. Just popping in to check up on your work.\\\\u201d Cameron\\\\u2019s eyes widen. \\\\u201cTotally joking! I left something in my office earlier.\\\\u201d Terry chuckles. \\\\u201cGood one, sir.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cKeep it up, kiddo. I\\\\u2019ll go around the other side so I don\\\\u2019t mess up the clean floor.\\\\u201d He\\\\u2019s almost around the bend when he pauses and turns back. \\\\u201cOh, Cameron. I\\\\u2019ve been meaning to check on that paperwork. You have a chance to fill it out yet?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cUm, not yet.\\\\u201d Terry has been periodically prodding him to fill out some housekeeping personnel form for a while now. Terry folds his arms. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s been two months.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI know. I\\\\u2019m sorry.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cMake it a priority,\\\\u201d Terry says. \\\\u201cI know it\\\\u2019s a pain, but I\\\\u2019ve let it slide long enough. Rules are rules.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ll do it tonight.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh, and could I trouble you for another copy of your driver\\\\u2019s license? I know we made one when you came on board, but I can\\\\u2019t seem to find it.\\\\u201d Cameron pats his back pocket. His wallet is there. \\\\u201cUh, sure.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWonderful,\\\\u201d Terry says. \\\\u201cLeave it on my desk before you go tonight, okay?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWill do, sir.\\\\u201d PAPERWORK IS NOT Cameron\\\\u2019s strong suit. Sitting at the table in the aquarium lobby, pen poised over the crumpled hiring form bathed in blue light from the tank, Cameron can\\\\u2019t help but remember the Merced Valley drama. Merced Valley Technical College might not be Ivy League, but they recruited Cameron once. They even offered him a full scholarship. All he had to do was fill out some paperwork. Free money for signing some forms. Cameron browsed the course catalog and picked out his classes. He was especially looking forward to philosophy. But the scholarship forms sat in a pile on his coffee table, collecting grease spots from pizza crusts and sweat rings from beer cans. Aunt Jeanne had been furious. Accused him of throwing his future away for no reason. All he had to do was fill out some damn forms! It would\\\\u2019ve taken twenty minutes. What\\\\u2019s wrong with you? she asked. It\\\\u2019s a good question. Ten minutes later, the aquarium personnel form is done, and as he deposits the paper on Terry\\\\u2019s desk, he remembers he was supposed to copy his license, too. The dusty photocopier in the corner of Terry\\\\u2019s office sounds like a spaceship taking off as it comes to life with a series of buzzes and beeps. Cameron helps himself to one of the mints from the little jar on Terry\\\\u2019s desk as he waits. When the machine is finally ready, he puts his card on the glass and presses the big green button. Which apparently triggers a series of beeping alarms. Paper Jam in Drawer C, Cameron reads on the tiny screen. He squats down and squints at the drawers. There are only two: A and B. Impossible. He opens every tab, drawer, and door he can find, but there is no Drawer C nor any whiff of a jammed paper anywhere. He jabs the green button again, but the screen just blinks the same message. Turns the whole thing off, then on again, three times. It will not relent on its insistence that there is something stuck in this nonexistent drawer. \\\\u201cDesigned by idiots,\\\\u201d he mutters, plucking his driver\\\\u2019s license from the glass and switching the machine off for good. With a shrug, he drops his license on top of the forms on Terry\\\\u2019s desk. He can get it back tomorrow night. \\\\n Day 1,352 of My Captivity OH, I DO ENJOY KEEPING THE BOY ON HIS TOES. PLEASE trust that I mean no harm. Quite the opposite. Some humans require this for their own good, to be challenged. I can relate. My brain is a powerful device, but it is hampered by my circumstances, and he is much the same. Of course, I want him to have a happy ending. Tova as well. It is, you might say, my dying wish. Anyway, on to tonight\\\\u2019s topic, which is paperwork. Humans and paperwork: such waste. If their memories were not so deficient, perhaps they would not need so many written records. But tonight, I have paperwork to thank. The rope he installed on my tank was no obstacle. When the time came, after he had finished cleaning and departed, I unfastened the knot and lifted the lid in quite the same manner as I always do. Should I be insulted by his underestimation of my abilities? The route to Terry\\\\u2019s office was rife with temptation, but The Consequences come on ever more quickly these days, so I forsook every tempting mollusk on the way. The Pacific geoduck clam exhibit looked especially ripe for the picking tonight. The humans call them gooey ducks, but their texture is pleasantly firm. But no gooey ducks tonight. I had more important plans. And to be honest, my appetite is rather poor these days. When I suckered up the side of Terry\\\\u2019s desk, I found the central object of my mission. A driver\\\\u2019s license. Just like the one in my Collection. It states a human\\\\u2019s full name and date of birth. As the seconds ticked by and The Consequences loomed, I carried the thin plastic card down the hallway. By the time I arrived at my destination, I had already begun to feel terribly weak. With effort, I tucked it under the tail of the sea lion statue. My return journey was slow and difficult. More than once, as I heaved my heavy body along the cement hallway, I pondered the possibility that I might perish. Right then, right there. Never to taste a scallop again. Never to feel my arms sucker onto the cool glass, to taste that humanity on the inside of her wrist, to touch, in turn, my Collection\\\\u2019s treasures. If I had died tonight, would this errand have been worth it? Indeed. Tova did not come tonight. She may not come tomorrow, but she will come. I am confident she will not leave without saying goodbye. She will not be able to resist running her rag under the sea lion\\\\u2019s tail. She never can. She knows she is the only one who does. When she does, she will see what I have left for her. And then she will know. \\\\n The Bad Check Ethan splashes Laphroaig Single Malt over two ice cubes then settles onto his lumpish little sofa. Evening creeps into the living room, daylight draining from the front window in unhurried measures, as slow as the sips of whiskey disappearing from his lowball glass. Cassmore. That surname had been a bugger in his brain since the very first time Cameron introduced himself. He knows Cassmore, but from where? It wasn\\\\u2019t until he was brushing his teeth this morning when, out of nowhere, the memory popped into his head. A bad check. It was the sort of thing that happened with some frequency back in those days, back when check writing was still a common way to pay for groceries. You bounce a check, you get put up on the wall. Sometime in the \\\\u201990s, it must\\\\u2019ve been. Ethan remembers the ancient, wrinkled slips tacked there, on the counter under the cash register, when he bought the Shop-Way. Bad checks from customers. A warning. Some of them had been there for years, such as this one in particular. The name Daphne Cassmore printed up in the corner atop the address block. The check was for some piddly amount. Six dollars and change. Ethan took the checks down right away. That wasn\\\\u2019t how he\\\\u2019d run the store. But he made a mental note of the names. It had been simple enough to link Daphne to Cameron. A few clicks on that ancestry website he\\\\u2019d bought a premium membership to a few months back led to Daphne Cassmore (who later married and became Daphne Scott) and then to a half sister: one Jeanne Baker, age sixty, of Modesto, California. Ms. Baker\\\\u2019s robust online presence seemed largely due to her involvement in several communities for collectors and consigners. Ethan knows the type: people who make a hobby of buying and selling rubbish. Cameron had complained about his aunt\\\\u2019s hoarding problem. It fit together. Ethan drains the last of the scotch from his glass. He\\\\u2019s glad no one writes checks anymore. Seeing so-called scammers hung up like that, their shame made public . . . how cruel. And Daphne Cassmore\\\\u2019s bad check, in particular, always made him feel sorry for whoever wrote it. To be crucified over such a lowly sum. What measly six-dollar grocery haul precipitated her fall, in the store\\\\u2019s eyes, from grace? It couldn\\\\u2019t have been a terribly long fall. From the bits and pieces Cameron has told him of his mum, anyway, that seems to be the case. The lad gets tight-lipped when he speaks of her, but Ethan has heard enough to deduce drugs were involved. Can he blame Cameron for not wanting to get into it? His mum abandoned him. The living room is fully dark now, and Ethan nearly trips over the pair of trainers he kicked off earlier when he crosses to the kitchen to pour another Laphroaig. Part of him thinks he ought to fill Cameron in on the town gossip, as it\\\\u2019s sure to spread now that Sandy Hewitt is opening her mouth in the middle of the produce section at the Shop-Way. Sooner or later, the lad will hear it himself: the rumor that his mother may know something about the disappearance of a teenage boy thirty years ago. Might have known and never said anything. Could Cameron\\\\u2019s image of her grow any more tarnished? Obviously, it all happened years before he was born. Or did it? How old is Cameron? Ethan can\\\\u2019t recall whether he\\\\u2019s ever mentioned his age, but he can\\\\u2019t be older than twenty-five, right? And then there\\\\u2019s the matter of Tova. How well can you know someone from bagging their groceries for so many years? Well enough to be certain she\\\\u2019s hunting down info on Daphne Cassmore right now. She won\\\\u2019t stop until she finds this woman who she thinks can tell her the untellable. Tova has never bought into the official story of Erik\\\\u2019s death, Ethan is certain. And then what will happen? He ought to tell her that Cameron is Daphne Cassmore\\\\u2019s son. She should hear it from a friend. Those two are chummy. How the lad has managed to crack Tova\\\\u2019s shell is a mystery to Ethan; he\\\\u2019s been trying to do so himself for nearly a year. But if Cameron\\\\u2019s mother was potentially involved in what happened to her son, what will she think whenever she looks at Cameron? It\\\\u2019s past ten in the evening, but Tova Sullivan is a night owl. Gathering his wits, he picks up the phone. He\\\\u2019ll ask her over for dinner. \\\\n The Downside of Free Food Cameron tosses a disgustingly mealy peach, whole but for a bite, into the trash can at the end of the pier. Ethan\\\\u2019s expired-grocery offerings can be a blessing and a curse. But he\\\\u2019s saved a crap ton of cash on groceries this summer, and to boot, he\\\\u2019s been parking the camper in Ethan\\\\u2019s driveway for free. He owes Ethan a solid, for sure. Stars scatter across the sky over Puget Sound, reflecting their silvery glow on the inky water below, a beautifully random pattern of lights that reminds Cameron of the dark brown freckles on the bridge of Avery\\\\u2019s nose. He turns from the water and heads back to the camper, where his phone is charging. He wonders, not for the first time, what it would be like to park here on the shore and wake up to nothing but the water view in his windshield. He\\\\u2019s thought about trying it, but Ethan says that Sowell Bay\\\\u2019s overnight patrolman, a buddy of his called Mike, would apparently relish towing a camper from one of the public lots. Would give poor old Mike something to do in the tedious predawn hours. Maybe, someday, he\\\\u2019d live here and have a house with a view of the water. Maybe, if he could just find Simon Brinks. But that\\\\u2019s the bright future. Tonight, he\\\\u2019ll drive back up the hill to his spot in Ethan\\\\u2019s driveway, but first, he logs into his banking app to see if his latest paycheck has cleared. It has. The last chunk of money he needs to pay Aunt Jeanne back in full. A thrill courses through him as he taps through the transfer, adding a bonus to the sum just because he can. He sends her a text, a heart emoji, but she\\\\u2019s probably asleep. It\\\\u2019s after eleven. A couple hundred bucks left over. He should save all of it. Totally should. But he pulls up a site he knows well, one that sells music for indie bands. Moth Sausage used to have their tracks listed there, but that\\\\u2019s not why he\\\\u2019s here. He searches his own name out of curiosity, but nothing comes up. Well, that\\\\u2019s not surprising. Brad probably had the band\\\\u2019s stuff taken down. Oh well. Instead, he searches until he finds two under-the-radar jam bands, ones that he knows are pretty decent. Like the Dead, like Phish or something, Ethan\\\\u2019s style, but new. Cameron Cassmore may be a loser and a burnout, living in a shitty camper, but he knows good music. He buys digital albums from both bands and enters Ethan\\\\u2019s email for delivery. It\\\\u2019s a start. THE CAMPER\\\\u2019S WINDOWS are still black when his phone buzzes. Cameron pats around until his hand finds the device. When he sees Aunt Jeanne\\\\u2019s number on the screen, his stomach drops. The last time she called him in the middle of the night, it was from the hospital, when she had a dented head and a shattered hip and two cops in her hospital room, trying to take a statement about what had happened in an altercation at Dell\\\\u2019s. \\\\u201cHello?\\\\u201d he says, breathless. When he\\\\u2019d rushed to the hospital back then, it was twenty minutes away. Now, he didn\\\\u2019t want to think about how long the drive would be. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m fine, Cammy,\\\\u201d she says, apparently reading his anxious tone. \\\\u201cThen why are you calling me now?\\\\u201d He checks the time. \\\\u201cAt one in the morning?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cDid I wake you up?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cUh, yeah.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThought you\\\\u2019d be out at the bar or something.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNo. I was sound asleep. I worked my ass off today.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSorry. Just wanted to let you know I got your bank transfer. You sent too much.\\\\u201d Aunt Jeanne lets out an off-key whistle. Has she been drinking? A muffled male voice shuffles in the background, and Cameron wonders whether Wally Perkins is there, with her, in her trailer. Cameron sits up, rubbing his eyes. \\\\u201cThe extra is interest.\\\\u201d He doesn\\\\u2019t add that he\\\\u2019d calculated it in his head based on the current prime rate and what she might have plausibly gotten from bonds, if the money had been invested there, which it never would have been, but did that matter? \\\\u201cWe never said anything about interest.\\\\u201d Her voice is cool. \\\\u201cBut I owed it to you.\\\\u201d And I owe you so much more, he doesn\\\\u2019t add. \\\\u201cYou don\\\\u2019t owe me anything.\\\\u201d Her voice is slurry, for sure. Definitely some whiskey. \\\\u201cYou know I never expected you to actually pay me back.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cFor sure I was going to pay you back.\\\\u201d Cameron hesitates, kicking off the blanket. \\\\u201cActually, I was thinking once I square things up with Simon Brinks for everything he owes, we could use the money for a down payment.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cA down payment?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cFor you. A house, back in town. Get you out of that trailer park.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI happen to like this trailer park.\\\\u201d In the background, a grizzled male voice pipes up. \\\\u201cWhat\\\\u2019s going on?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWally, did you realize we live in a dump?\\\\u201d Cameron sputters, \\\\u201cI never said it was a dump!\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNot in so many words,\\\\u201d Aunt Jeanne says dryly. \\\\u201cLook, I\\\\u2019m glad you\\\\u2019re so flush with cash all of a sudden that you can go around buying houses for people who don\\\\u2019t need them. Why don\\\\u2019t you keep the money and actually make something of your life?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat do you think I\\\\u2019m trying to do? Not my fault I was dealt a shitty hand.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNo, the deal is never anyone\\\\u2019s fault. But you control the way you play.\\\\u201d There\\\\u2019s a splash and tinkling of ice cubes, then a moment\\\\u2019s pause and another one. Two more drinks poured. Cameron flings open the camper\\\\u2019s back door, tumbles out, and starts pacing in Ethan\\\\u2019s driveway. Under his bare feet, the pavement is still warm from the hot summer day. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ve played my hand as best I could. You could\\\\u2019ve told me Sowell Bay was where I came from.\\\\u201d Aunt Jeanne snorts. \\\\u201cWhat good would that have done?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI might have maybe found my father before I was, say, thirty years old.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThat man is not your father.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHow do you know for sure?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cShe was my sister, Cammy.\\\\u201d Aunt Jeanne\\\\u2019s voice is weary now, almost defeated. \\\\u201cFor all your mother\\\\u2019s flaws, she was no dummy. If your father was some big-shot business guy . . . I mean, if he were even a marginally productive member of society, or, hell, even alive . . . I don\\\\u2019t know, Cammy. I think if it were that simple, she wouldn\\\\u2019t have let him miss out on being a part of your life.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cShe missed out on being a part of my life.\\\\u201d Cameron kicks a clump of crabgrass in a crack of Ethan\\\\u2019s driveway. \\\\u201cSeems like letting people go comes easy to her.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cLetting go,\\\\u201d Aunt Jeanne says softly, \\\\u201ccan be the hardest thing.\\\\u201d Cameron feels his face twist into an involuntary scowl. It\\\\u2019s basically the same thing Avery said when they were paddleboarding under the pier, but somehow hearing it from Aunt Jeanne makes him want to kick right through the concrete. \\\\u201cLook, I need to bounce,\\\\u201d he says. \\\\u201cWork in the morning.\\\\u201d This isn\\\\u2019t true. He doesn\\\\u2019t work until noon, but it seems like the sort of excuse a responsible person might give to get off the phone in the middle of the night. Aunt Jeanne muffles the receiver for a second, another exchange with Wally Perkins. \\\\u201cOkay, Cammy. But I\\\\u2019d love to see you when we come through Seattle before our cruise next month.\\\\u201d We? \\\\u201cSure thing,\\\\u201d says Cameron. Whatever. He hangs up and slams the camper door behind him before flopping back onto his mattress. \\\\n Not a Date The following Saturday at five o\\\\u2019clock, Tova arrives at Ethan\\\\u2019s house. It is not a date. The glass bottle is cool on her bare arm as she tucks it in the crook of her elbow, the way one might very awkwardly hold an infant. This strikes her as a better manner of presenting the gift to Ethan than the way Barbara thrust it at her, clutching it crudely by the neck, blabbing on about how it was last season\\\\u2019s Cab Franc from that winery over in Woodinville and how it was so delightful, she must bring it for her date. Not a date, Tova had insisted over and over. A million times, as Cameron might say. It\\\\u2019s nothing more than supper. A quick supper. She had clarified this when she accepted the invitation, citing her need to keep packing for her move. In truth, her free time has been consumed with searching every volume the Snohomish County Public Library would allow her to check out for any information about Daphne Cassmore. But the research has stalled, and Tova has learned very little of use. What harm could come from taking an evening off to share a meal with a friend? With a friend? Is Ethan her friend? In any event, it would be rude to arrive at someone\\\\u2019s house without a gift. Tova is not much of a wine drinker herself, but this is what people do. Some small part of her is thankful for Barb\\\\u2019s pushiness. Without it, she might\\\\u2019ve committed the faux pas of arriving empty-handed, and even if she had thought to procure one on her own, she couldn\\\\u2019t have exactly marched into the Shop-Way and bought one from Ethan himself. Head high, she strides up the short driveway toward the squatty bungalow. Her ankle is nearly healed now, only the tiniest hitch. An overgrown hydrangea with periwinkle blossoms encroaches upon the small porch. Tova lifts a branch out of her way to pass and, before she can change her mind, presses the doorbell. \\\\u201cEvening, Tova,\\\\u201d Ethan says, stepping back and motioning for her to enter. His voice is strangely quiet. She hands him the bottle, and he thanks her, then offers to take her pocketbook, gesturing toward a slightly crooked coatrack in the corner. \\\\u201cThank you, but it\\\\u2019s no problem to keep it with me.\\\\u201d Tova clutches the bag to her hip like a biblical fig leaf. As if she\\\\u2019d be bare naked without it. \\\\u201cBrilliant, then,\\\\u201d Ethan says. Making her way across the natty carpet, Tova can\\\\u2019t help but stare at the feature that dominates the house: an entire living room wall dedicated to a record collection, the cheap shelving\\\\u2019s veneer peeling back from the particleboard. If this had been their house, back then, Will would\\\\u2019ve tacked the loose laminate down. Tova resists the urge to go pick at it, like a half-attached scab better removed, lest it snag on something. Entering someone\\\\u2019s home is always an intimate act. She looks around for photos, but there are none. Instead, the walls are decorated with beautifully framed concert posters: Grateful Dead, Hendrix, the Rolling Stones. The style should befit a teenager\\\\u2019s room, yet somehow, it seems to match Ethan perfectly. She follows him into a surprisingly tidy little kitchen, which smells of simmering mushrooms, while they make small talk. Tova has never cared for small talk, and she stumbles through it now. When Ethan hands her a goblet filled to the brim with Barb\\\\u2019s delightful Cab Franc, she takes it gratefully. \\\\u201cCheers, love,\\\\u201d he says. \\\\u201cCheers,\\\\u201d Tova echoes, clinking his class. After several moments and several more sips, she picks up a pair of sunglasses on the counter, recognizing them as Cameron\\\\u2019s. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s been kind of you to open your home to him.\\\\u201d Ethan pours a swish of red wine into the skillet, which hisses in response, releasing an enormous puff of steam. \\\\u201cTo tell you the truth, it\\\\u2019s nice having a bit of company.\\\\u201d Tova nods. She knows what he means. It\\\\u2019s been nice having Cameron down at the aquarium, too. \\\\u201cYes, I should say so.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cD\\\\u2019you know, I came from a family of fourteen. Eleven brothers and sisters. When I was a wee lad, I always imagined my adult self in a house bursting at the seams.\\\\u201d Tova permits herself a smile. \\\\u201cI thought it was the Irish who were known for big families.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cEh, we Scots can hold our own.\\\\u201d He flashes her a grin, scraping mushroom sauce over two plump chicken breasts, one on each plate. To Tova\\\\u2019s astonishment, her mouth waters. How long has it been since anyone prepared such a lovely meal for her? THEY\\\\u2019RE SAVORING THEIR last bites when a screen door bangs. A moment later, Cameron whirls into the room, darkness shadowing his face. The glower lifts briefly, replaced by a confused look when he sees Tova sitting there with Ethan at his kitchen table. After a moment, the glare returns, although it\\\\u2019s pointed exclusively at Ethan. \\\\u201cHey, man. Can I talk to you for a sec?\\\\u201d It sounds like his teeth are clenched. \\\\u201cA\\\\u2019course. Shoot,\\\\u201d Ethan says. \\\\u201cI was hanging out down at the paddle shop, and Tanner, that kid that works at your store, came in with his buddies. Do you know what they happened to mention?\\\\u201d Cameron\\\\u2019s tone is cool. \\\\u201cSaid you were talking about my\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cRight, then.\\\\u201d Ethan vaults from his seat. He gives Cameron a pointed look as he guides the boy toward the living room. Over his shoulder, he excuses himself and insists Tova keep enjoying her meal, what\\\\u2019s left of it, anyway, and that he\\\\u2019ll only be a quick minute. The two of them vanish through the small house, presumably into some back bedroom, well out of earshot. What would be wrong with the boy? A twinge of guilt tugs at her. Perhaps she would know, if she hadn\\\\u2019t missed their last two cleaning sessions. The \\\\u201cquick minute\\\\u201d drags on. Tova decides the least she can do is to start cleaning up the cooking mess. It\\\\u2019s something to do. And what a post-cooking disaster this kitchen is. Head feeling somewhat lighter than usual, thanks to the wine, she searches for a sponge, and clicks her tongue when she fails to find one anywhere in the proximity of the kitchen sink. What does Ethan wash his dishes with? There isn\\\\u2019t a sponge or a dishcloth anywhere in sight. The drawer next to the sink seems like a logical place to look. But it seems to be a junk drawer. She opens the next one over, but it\\\\u2019s also an assortment of papers, tools, oddities. Tova lets out a sigh. Why must men do this? If Will had had his way, he\\\\u2019d have allowed every bureau in their house to slip into junk-drawer status. She lets out a soft chuckle, thinking of Marcellus and his collection of oddities, stashed under the gravel in his den. Apparently, this tendency of males to assemble useless dross transcends species. Under the sink, there ought to be something to use on the dishes, but as Tova swings open the cabinet, she\\\\u2019s greeted with boxes of cereal and stacks of those microwavable instant-rice cups. Her jaw drops open. Who keeps a pantry under the sink? Adrenaline rushes through her head, making her dizzy. There\\\\u2019s much she could do here. Reorganize the entire kitchen. Wipe down the interior cabinets and drawers. Does Ethan have any idea how much he needs someone like her? She closes her eyes and takes a grounding breath. For now, she ought to focus on the dishes. Inspecting the cupboard under the sink again, she spots a rag. Upon further inspection, it\\\\u2019s an old T-shirt, white with faded print. Clearly a rag. Perfect for cleaning. When the last dish has been nestled on the drying rack, she uses the shirt to wipe down the counters, swiping over a puddle of Cab Franc that had splashed on the counter with Ethan\\\\u2019s haphazard pouring. Wine seeps into the soggy cotton, the stain fading into a shade of muted violet when she rinses and wrings it in the sink. Pride swells within her as she surveys the sparkling kitchen, and as if on cue, voices drift from the other room. The boys are coming back. Perhaps they\\\\u2019ve smoothed over their spat. Cameron won\\\\u2019t meet her eye before he ducks back out the rear door. A moment later, the camper\\\\u2019s grizzly ignition sputters to life. \\\\u201cTova, love,\\\\u201d Ethan says. His voice is tight. \\\\u201cAre you all all right?\\\\u201d Tova ventures, taking a step toward him. \\\\u201cI should tell you something.\\\\u201d He shifts on his feet. It seems he hasn\\\\u2019t even noticed that Tova cleaned the entire kitchen. \\\\u201cWell, what is it?\\\\u201d Tova presses, but then wonders whether she should\\\\u2019ve. Suddenly, she wants nothing more than to be home, sitting on her davenport. Watching the evening news. The tidy, predictable banter of Craig Moreno and Carla Ketchum and meteorologist Joan Jennison. She places the wadded rag/T-shirt on the counter and clasps her hands. Ethan\\\\u2019s gaze locks on the bundle on the counter. His eyes bulge. \\\\u201cWhat the . . . ?\\\\u201d He crosses the kitchen and holds up the wine-stained rag. Color drains from his ruddy cheeks. Tova straightens, nervous. \\\\u201cWhat have you done?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThe dishes.\\\\u201d Tova plants her hands on her hips. \\\\u201cI cleaned the kitchen, washed the dishes, wiped down the counters. I had half a mind to start on that mess under your sink, but\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh.\\\\u201d Ethan\\\\u2019s voice is hoarse. He slops the rag-shirt onto the table and sinks down into one of the chairs, dropping his huge head into his hands. His voice is muffled when he says, \\\\u201cGrateful Dead, Memorial Stadium. May 26, 1995.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat does that mean?\\\\u201d He looks up, eyes flashing. \\\\u201cTheir last show in Seattle. One of Jerry Garcia\\\\u2019s last shows ever.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t . . . well . . .\\\\u201d Tova\\\\u2019s head spins. Jerry Garcia was the lead singer of Grateful Dead and passed away in 1995, of this she\\\\u2019s certain. Crossword puzzle makers occasionally use some version of this as a clue, and it always strikes her as somewhat pedestrian for a pop-culture nod. \\\\u201cThe shirt. It was from that show. It\\\\u2019s a rare specimen.\\\\u201d Ethan expels a long breath as he rises. \\\\u201cBut it was under the sink.\\\\u201d Ethan flings an arm toward the cabinet. \\\\u201cRight. It was in that closet.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThat\\\\u2019s not a closet. It\\\\u2019s a cabinet.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThey\\\\u2019re both compartments with doors! What\\\\u2019s the difference?\\\\u201d Tova folds her arms. \\\\u201cWell, most people keep cleaning supplies under the sink.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWho cares what most people do?\\\\u201d He pinches the bridge of his nose. \\\\u201cRed wine stains. They come out, right?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cMaybe they\\\\u2019ll lighten,\\\\u201d Tova says. \\\\u201cWith undiluted bleach.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBut that will . . .\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYes,\\\\u201d she admits. \\\\u201cIt will fade out everything else, too.\\\\u201d Ethan says nothing but gets up heavily and wanders over to the counter and dumps the remainder of Barb\\\\u2019s Cab Franc into his glass, then finishes it in one gulp. Tova watches, her jaw suddenly wired shut, her feet somehow rooted to the ground. Who leaves a precious garment shoved in a kitchen cupboard? And one in such terrible shape, so horribly faded and worn? No, not horribly worn. Well loved. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m sorry, Ethan.\\\\u201d He squares his shoulders. \\\\u201cAye. It\\\\u2019s all right, love.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m going to go now,\\\\u201d Tova says, trembling. \\\\u201cThank you for the meal.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cPlease wait. I have something important to tell you. The reason I asked you over tonight, actually . . .\\\\u201d But Tova is already halfway across the house, clutching her pocketbook to her hip. The front door shuts quietly behind her. \\\\n A Rare Specimen Tova has never cared much for rock music, at least not the modern kind. As a girl, of course, she liked Chuck Berry and Little Richard. And Elvis Presley, the King himself. When they were newlyweds, Will used to take her dancing at the hall downtown on Saturday nights, where they\\\\u2019d jitterbug until their feet were swollen. But the music teenage Erik used to blast from the boom box in his bedroom? That was noise, pure and simple. The blend of guitar and drumbeats drifting out of the speaker on Janice Kim\\\\u2019s laptop computer is somewhere in between. Tova can\\\\u2019t understand much of what the lead singer is saying, but his voice is pleasant. The music sounds like it\\\\u2019s wandering, meandering. It isn\\\\u2019t unenjoyable. \\\\u201cHang on, let me turn down the volume,\\\\u201d Janice says, jabbing at the keyboard. \\\\u201cDon\\\\u2019t you hate it when websites have script embedded to play music automatically?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh yes,\\\\u201d Tova says, though she\\\\u2019s not sure what that means. Across the room, on his plush pouf, Rolo lifts his head. The tiny dog yawns, stands, and gives his whole body a good shake before trotting over. Janice scoops him up to her lap, and Tova reaches over and strokes his silky head. \\\\u201cAh, here we go. This is the one you\\\\u2019re looking for, right?\\\\u201d Janice zooms in on a photo of a scrawny man holding up a faded white T-shirt, the very same one Tova ruined last night at Ethan\\\\u2019s house. By the time she arrived home, Ethan had already left a message on her answering machine, insisting she not worry about the shirt. This morning, he sent a text message to her cell phone, too, apologizing for the sour note the evening took, and begging her to call him back. She thought about calling back, but she didn\\\\u2019t know how to reply to the message, and in any event, getting in touch with Janice to ask for her help seemed more important. The shirt was beloved. Tova needs to make it right. \\\\u201cYes, that\\\\u2019s it.\\\\u201d She watches as Janice clicks through several other photos of the shirt, front and back, laid out on a wooden dining table. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m not familiar with this particular auction site,\\\\u201d Janice says, squinting at the screen. \\\\u201cBut it\\\\u2019s securely encrypted, so I guess it\\\\u2019s probably legit?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cRight.\\\\u201d Tova nods. Mercifully, Janice has asked few questions of Tova about why she\\\\u2019s trying to acquire a souvenir T-shirt from a Grateful Dead concert in 1995. It seems like the remaining Knit-Wits have been walking on eggshells around her ever since she announced her intention to move to Charter Village. \\\\u201cOkay, so here\\\\u2019s where you put in your credit card number.\\\\u201d Janice clicks over to another screen. Her brows furrow as the new page loads. \\\\u201cNo, this can\\\\u2019t be right.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat is it?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt says this shirt costs two thousand dollars.\\\\u201d Rolo yips, apparently sharing Janice\\\\u2019s shock. \\\\u201cI see.\\\\u201d Tova swallows a gasp before continuing matter-of-factly, \\\\u201cYes, well. It\\\\u2019s a rare specimen.\\\\u201d Janice\\\\u2019s eyes narrow. \\\\u201cSince when do you collect concert memorabilia? What are you up to, Tova?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s nothing.\\\\u201d Tova waves her off. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m just making something right.\\\\u201d She reaches into her pocketbook and flips through her wallet until she finds her lone credit card, which she uses only when paying cash isn\\\\u2019t an option. \\\\u201cFor the fellow selling this, you\\\\u2019re about to make his day right, that\\\\u2019s for sure,\\\\u201d Janice mutters, taking Tova\\\\u2019s card and punching the numbers in. Before she hits the green BUY NOW button, she casts one last skeptical look at Tova. \\\\u201cAre you sure?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYes. Do it.\\\\u201d Tova isn\\\\u2019t sure why her heart is beating so quickly. It\\\\u2019s only a replacement for an item she ruined, and two thousand dollars is hardly a dent in her bank account. A little circle on the center of the laptop\\\\u2019s screen spins for a few seconds, and then Janice says, \\\\u201cOkay, there we go,\\\\u201d as a thank-you screen appears. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ll print the receipt when it hits my email. Looks like it\\\\u2019ll ship within two to three weeks.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThree weeks!\\\\u201d Tova shakes her head. \\\\u201cNo, I can\\\\u2019t wait three weeks.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou can\\\\u2019t wait three weeks? For this dirty old shirt?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNo.\\\\u201d Tova sets her jaw. Yet another reason why this internet shopping craze is foolish. Who wants to wait three weeks for something they\\\\u2019ve purchased? \\\\u201cWell, it says you can pick it up.\\\\u201d Words and graphics whiz up the screen as Janice scrolls. She peers at Tova doubtfully. \\\\u201cTheir warehouse is in Tukwila.\\\\u201d Tukwila is south of Seattle, near the airport. It will take three hours to drive down there from Sowell Bay, at least. Maybe more with downtown Seattle traffic. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019d rather do that. Can you change it?\\\\u201d Janice\\\\u2019s mouth drops open. \\\\u201cSeriously?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSeriously,\\\\u201d Tova parrots. \\\\u201cOkey-dokey.\\\\u201d Looking skeptical, Janice clicks a few more buttons. Moments later, her printer whirs to life, and a page emerges. She deposits Rolo on the floor before going to fetch the page and handing it to Tova. It\\\\u2019s a small, grainy map with an address in Tukwila. \\\\u201cVery good. Thank you for your help,\\\\u201d says Tova with a firm nod, folding the page and tucking it into her pocketbook. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re going to drive all the way down there?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI suppose I am.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhen was the last time you drove through Seattle? And on the freeway, Tova?\\\\u201d Tova doesn\\\\u2019t answer, but it was when Will was going through one of his last rounds of treatment. He saw a specialist at the University of Washington. The experimental drug didn\\\\u2019t help Will much, unfortunately, but of course they had to try. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ll go with you,\\\\u201d Janice says. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ll get Peter to come, too. He can drive. Let me look at my calendar, we\\\\u2019ll pick a day, and\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNo thank you,\\\\u201d Tova cuts in. \\\\u201cI can go on my own. I\\\\u2019d like to get it done today.\\\\u201d Janice crosses her arms. \\\\u201cWell, I\\\\u2019m sure you know what you\\\\u2019re doing. Be careful. Take your cell phone.\\\\u201d STOPPED CARS ARE packed on the interstate like herring in a tin. Brake lights glitter red and pink through the wet windshield as the wipers clear away the drizzle, somewhat unusual for summer, when it\\\\u2019s typically hot and dry. Naturally, it would start raining during Tova\\\\u2019s first drive on the freeway in two years. The hatchback inches forward. Everyone in Tova\\\\u2019s middle lane seems to be switching over to the right lane. Perhaps there\\\\u2019s something blocking the lane on the left. She\\\\u2019s about to switch on the blinker when the cell phone rings from its spot in her cup holder. Tova jabs the screen. \\\\u201cHello?\\\\u201d Nothing happens. Janice showed her how to make the cell phone work like a speaker, but now she can\\\\u2019t remember which of the little round icons does this. She tries another one and says again, louder, \\\\u201cHello?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cMrs. Sullivan?\\\\u201d A male voice bleats from the device. \\\\u201cYes,\\\\u201d Tova says. \\\\u201cThis is she.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHi, this is Patrick. I\\\\u2019m with admissions at Charter Village. How are you today?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cFine, thank you.\\\\u201d Tova gives one last sidelong look at her rearview mirror and holds her breath as she guides the car into the right lane. She exhales, wondering if Patrick can hear it on the other end of the line. \\\\u201cGood. I\\\\u2019m calling to make sure it\\\\u2019s okay to process your final deposit.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI see,\\\\u201d Tova says. \\\\u201cWe haven\\\\u2019t received your authorization form yet. Perhaps it got lost in the mail?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh, well, you know the postal service these days.\\\\u201d Now all of the cars that merged right are fighting to make their way left. Why can\\\\u2019t anyone make up their mind? The cars remind Tova of a school of feckless fish dodging a predator\\\\u2019s attack, moving in unison, not realizing they\\\\u2019re fleeing the shark on one side only to be devoured by the seal on the other. Patrick clears his throat. \\\\u201cSo I\\\\u2019m calling because we need that final deposit in order to secure your move-in date, which is\\\\u2014hang on, let me check\\\\u2014oh, it\\\\u2019s next month.\\\\u201d Tova hits the brake pedal a bit harder than intended. \\\\u201cYes, I believe that\\\\u2019s correct.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNo wonder my supervisor flagged this. Well, given the circumstances, I can take your verbal authorization to make the draft. Is that okay?\\\\u201d Tova swings around a semitruck, back into the other lane, which is now zooming along at a good clip while the other lane stands still. How odd such things can be. Each little decision about which lane to choose determines exactly how you get where you\\\\u2019re going, and when. When Will was alive, he used to accompany Tova to do the grocery shopping sometimes, and he would always pick the slower checkout line. They used to joke about how he had a knack for it. She and Will had gone to the grocery store the afternoon of the day Erik died. Tova remembers buying a box of those junky cream-filled snack cakes Erik always liked. Had Will chosen the slow checkout lane that day? If he\\\\u2019d picked the faster one, would they have arrived home in time to see Erik before he left for his job at the ferry dock? Would they have caught him sneaking beer from the fridge? Would he have mentioned that he was seeing a girl now? Would he have told Tova her name was Daphne and he couldn\\\\u2019t wait to bring her over for supper? Would any of this have changed anything? \\\\u201cHello? Mrs. Sullivan? Are you there?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYes.\\\\u201d Tova blinks at the phone in the cup holder. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m here.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAre you all right?\\\\u201d There\\\\u2019s a note of concern in Patrick\\\\u2019s voice. Tova pictures him hovering over a telephone at one of the desks inside the glass-walled office she walked by on her Charter Village tour. \\\\u201cGo ahead,\\\\u201d she says. \\\\u201cProcess it.\\\\u201d \\\\n Not Even a Birthday Card Cameron has already mopped half the building when a flustered Tova hurries through the front door, almost an hour late. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m sorry I\\\\u2019m late,\\\\u201d she says. \\\\u201cNo worries. We\\\\u2019ve well established I can handle this on my own.\\\\u201d He smiles, but doesn\\\\u2019t add that he\\\\u2019d been disappointed, again, when she hadn\\\\u2019t showed. That, strange as she is, he has looked forward to their evenings together. And today has been a bit lonely. He\\\\u2019s hardly said two words to Ethan since their argument. All that garbage Ethan\\\\u2019s apparently been spreading around town . . . it doesn\\\\u2019t even make sense. Something about a bad check. From a thousand years ago. Like Cameron needs any reminding that his mother was a loser. Tova nods, then leans in conspiratorially. \\\\u201cI won\\\\u2019t double-check the trash liners this time. I trust you.\\\\u201d Cameron gasps, feigning shock. \\\\u201cYou trust me to assemble garbage cans! Wow, I\\\\u2019ve arrived.\\\\u201d He laughs, and Tova laughs along with him. \\\\u201cSo, where were you, anyway?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh, well, it\\\\u2019s been quite an adventure.\\\\u201d Tova picks up a rag and begins to wipe down the glass front of the bluegill exhibit, while relaying an almost-unbelievable story about Grateful Dead memorabilia and online auctions and some guy at a warehouse down in Tukwila who almost wouldn\\\\u2019t hand her purchase over because she couldn\\\\u2019t confirm her friend\\\\u2019s email address, which she\\\\u2019d used because she doesn\\\\u2019t have one of her own. She scrubs at a fingerprint on the glass as she talks. Her cheeks are flushed in a most un-Tova-like way. \\\\u201cGood heavens,\\\\u201d she says with a small laugh. \\\\u201cLook at me, yammering on and on.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s fine. It\\\\u2019s a great story,\\\\u201d Cameron says, chuckling. \\\\u201cAnd I could help you set up an email if you want. They\\\\u2019re free.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t own a computer.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNeither do I. My email goes to my phone.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cTo your phone,\\\\u201d she says, with a dismissive wave of her rag. \\\\u201cYoung people and their phones.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, having a smartphone would make it easy to keep in touch when you move away.\\\\u201d At this, Tova\\\\u2019s face stiffens. Was he not supposed to bring that up? Is her departure some big secret? But how could it be? Ethan has mentioned it casually several times. It\\\\u2019s a source of discontent for him, his hopeless crush moving upstate. \\\\u201cA smartphone. Perhaps.\\\\u201d She smiles. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m sorry we didn\\\\u2019t get a chance to say hello at Ethan\\\\u2019s house the other night.\\\\u201d It\\\\u2019s like she\\\\u2019s reading his mind. \\\\u201cEthan was super stoked about your date. How did it go?\\\\u201d Tova straightens. \\\\u201cIt was not a date.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOkay. Your . . . dinner.\\\\u201d Tova folds the rag and tucks it in her back pocket, then leans on the cart. \\\\u201cYou know, Will and I were married forty-seven years when he passed away. I cannot date.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhy not?\\\\u201d She sighs, as if the answer is beyond explaining. They clean together in silence for a while, rounding the curved hallway, pausing in front of the sea lion statue. Cameron makes a point of mopping thoroughly, getting into every corner of the alcove, under the benches and behind the trash can. Tova polishes the creature\\\\u2019s bald head with her rag. \\\\u201cMake sure you get under its tail, dear.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cUnder what?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cUnder the statue\\\\u2019s tail. Here, I\\\\u2019ll show you.\\\\u201d She takes her dust rag and starts to slide it under the polished brass tail. Cameron resists the urge to roll his eyes. How would that spot possibly get dirty? \\\\u201cI know, I know. There\\\\u2019s a right way to do things,\\\\u201d Cameron mutters, but Tova\\\\u2019s not listening. She\\\\u2019s squinting at something in the little gap between the statue and the floor. She stands, slowly, not taking her eyes off the thing she\\\\u2019s clutching. A credit card? From the look on her face he expects her to say good heavens or my word or goodness gracious, but for a long moment, she says nothing. \\\\u201cIs this your driver\\\\u2019s license?\\\\u201d she finally whispers, holding the card up. It is, in fact, his license. He\\\\u2019d planned to collect it from his cubby, where Terry said he would leave it, on his way out tonight. How had it gotten all the way over here? \\\\u201cYeah, actually.\\\\u201d He holds out a hand to take it, but she grips it firmly, studying it closer. \\\\u201cCameron,\\\\u201d she says slowly. \\\\u201cI know you are here in Sowell Bay looking for your father. And I know you don\\\\u2019t have a relationship with your mother. But what is her name?\\\\u201d He frowns. \\\\u201cWhy?\\\\u201d Tova waits patiently. \\\\u201cHer name is Daphne.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cDaphne Cassmore?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cUm, yeah.\\\\u201d What is going on? He reaches again for his license and this time Tova lets him take it. Her face is as pale and thin as the moonlight streaming through the skylight. \\\\u201cShe was seeing him,\\\\u201d Tova says quietly. \\\\u201cYour mother is the girl.\\\\u201d HEARING THE STORY of Erik\\\\u2019s disappearance from Tova herself, instead of Ethan, is different. They sit on the alcove\\\\u2019s bench, on opposite sides but facing each other across the sea lion\\\\u2019s smooth back. In a quiet, even voice, Tova tells Cameron how her son, the summer after his senior year of high school, went to work at the ferry dock one July night and never came home. The boat no one noticed missing. The cut rope on the anchor. \\\\u201cI never believed it.\\\\u201d Tova shakes her head. \\\\u201cI never believed he killed himself. When I found out that Erik might have been seeing a girl, a girl his friends didn\\\\u2019t really know about . . .\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWait. This girl. How do you know it was my mom?\\\\u201d Tova rubs at a black smudge on the bench. Probably a mark from someone\\\\u2019s shoe. \\\\u201cA former classmate. A long-forgotten memory.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAnd the police never talked to this classmate?\\\\u201d Tova clicks her tongue. \\\\u201cAdam was not a close friend, and the investigation was thorough, at first. But with no eyewitnesses and zero leads . . . well, they wanted to close the case, I suppose.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou think my mom could\\\\u2019ve had something to do with . . .\\\\u201d Cameron lets out a low whistle. Tova looks up, her face inscrutable. \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t know. But she was seeing him, it seems. She might have been with him that night. She might be able to tell me . . .\\\\u201d Her voice trails off, then she swallows before adding, \\\\u201cDo you know how I might contact her?\\\\u201d He shakes his head. \\\\u201cI haven\\\\u2019t seen her since I was nine.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou haven\\\\u2019t heard from her? Not even a birthday card?\\\\u201d The words twist like a knife in his gut. How many times has he thought the same thing to himself? Aunt Jeanne always insisted his mother loved him. That she left because that\\\\u2019s what was best for him. That maybe someday she\\\\u2019d conquer her demons and be ready for a relationship. But what demons are so powerful they prevent someone from buying a ninety-nine-cent birthday card and slapping a stamp on it? How often has he convinced himself she\\\\u2019s actually dead, because that hurts less than believing she could care about him so little? \\\\u201cNope. Not even a birthday card.\\\\u201d He rises and walks out of the alcove. His eyes are burning, heavy and wet, and he doesn\\\\u2019t need her to see that. A good, hard blink or two will send the tears packing. If it were that simple, she wouldn\\\\u2019t have let him miss out on being a part of your life. Aunt Jeanne\\\\u2019s words crash through his skull. For all your mother\\\\u2019s flaws, she was no dummy. If his father was dead . . . had died in some accident when they were both eighteen . . . well, that would be a pretty solid reason to never have brought him into Cameron\\\\u2019s life. He squeezes his eyes shut. Could that be possible? It would mean that Tova is his . . . No, it can\\\\u2019t be. She\\\\u2019s so tiny, and so weird. No one else in his family is tiny or weird. And it would mean his mother was something less than terrible, not a victim, maybe even honorable like a martyr, rather than a perpetrator of his own suffering. That absolutely does not compute, so he pushes the idea out of his mind. Tova comes to stand next to him in front of the big middle tank. They watch a school of cod drift by, propelled by the tank\\\\u2019s fake current. If they wait four minutes, Cameron knows, they\\\\u2019ll come by again. What a life, those endless laps. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m sorry,\\\\u201d Tova says. She places a hand on his shoulder. Doesn\\\\u2019t rub or squeeze, just places it there, as if the contact might siphon off some of his pain. It\\\\u2019s the sort of touch that is so warm as to be almost maternal . . . No, he pushes the thought away. She\\\\u2019s just being nice, because Tova is extraordinarily nice, in spite of the stoic shell she puts on at first. He glances down at her, struck by how tough this tiny little lady is, how much grief her ninety-pound frame has endured. And now she\\\\u2019s absorbing some of his, too. How much can one person take? In the tank, a big gray cow shark approaches, its blunt nose sweeping slow arcs along the sand, like it\\\\u2019s looking for something. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m sorry about Erik, too. I\\\\u2019m sorry my mom might somehow be involved,\\\\u201d Cameron says. \\\\u201cHardly your fault, dear. But thank you.\\\\u201d The shark\\\\u2019s beady eye catches notice of them, and it pauses for a second before moving on. Tova\\\\u2019s mouth curves into a tight smile. \\\\u201cOught to get to the floors, I suppose.\\\\u201d ETHAN\\\\u2019S LIGHTS ARE out when Cameron gets home from work, ruining his plans to smooth things over. Turns out Ethan\\\\u2019s incomprehensible ramblings had some basis after all. And deep down, somehow, Cameron strongly suspects that it\\\\u2019s more than a rumor. His mom was involved in this town\\\\u2019s biggest tragedy. He keeps waiting for this information to make him sad or angry, as it should, but try as he might, he can\\\\u2019t seem to make those emotions appear. What does it matter, anyway? Let the rumors come. Townie chatter about Daphne Cassmore can\\\\u2019t hurt Cameron. He gives fewer than zero shits about Daphne Cassmore. He roots around in the camper\\\\u2019s mini fridge until he finds one of those plastic lunch trays with crackers, cheese, and deli meat. Ethan brought a bunch of them home from the store last week and insisted Cameron take a few. They\\\\u2019ve passed their expiration date, so the store can\\\\u2019t sell them, he explained, but this stuff is so processed it\\\\u2019s practically rot-proof. Cameron peels back the plastic, and a peppery smell wafts out from the little stack of salami in its square compartment. He assembles a little stack on a cracker and is about to take a bite when his phone dings. It\\\\u2019s from Avery. You up? Just got home from work. Then he types out a whole explanation of the mess with his mother and Tova and Erik. The whole screen is filled with word vomit when he changes his mind and backspaces the characters. It\\\\u2019s too much for a text message. Avery writes back. Paddle this week? Wednesday afternoon? You\\\\u2019re off Wednesdays, right? Cameron grins into the dim camper cabin. He types, What time? Four? Meet at shop. I can duck out a little early. At least she didn\\\\u2019t suggest the crack of dawn. Four in the afternoon, he can do. He sends back a thumbs-up. Bring a change of clothes this time. Or . . . don\\\\u2019t. Avery adds a winking-face emoji. Something warm, like contentment, floods through Cameron as he slips into bed. \\\\n What If It was almost three years ago, the afternoon when the Knit-Wits learned that Mary Ann Minetti\\\\u2019s teenage granddaughter, Tatum, had gotten pregnant. But the memory comes slamming back into Tova\\\\u2019s consciousness like it was yesterday. The rest of the Knit-Wits were properly scandalized by the news. But Tova, to her shame, felt only envy. Eighteen. Tatum was eighteen, and naturally was faced with a difficult choice. The Knit-Wits debated her particular conundrum, but for Tova it was only: what if. What if Erik had been in Tatum\\\\u2019s shoes? On the other side of the exchange of genetic material, of course, but what if he\\\\u2019d become a father at eighteen, before his life was truncated? Tova would have a grandchild. What a gift that would have been. Tatum went on to have the baby. Laura, Mary Ann\\\\u2019s daughter, helped her out with childcare for this unexpected grandchild, and life went on smoothly, as far as Tova could tell. Surely that wasn\\\\u2019t always the case. Mary Ann\\\\u2019s family had the means to help with the baby, and Tatum wanted to keep it, and the baby\\\\u2019s father is still reasonably supportive and involved, from what Tova can tell. An ideal outcome, really. But what about other outcomes for similar situations? The possibilities are plenty. The birth date on Cameron\\\\u2019s driver\\\\u2019s license is seared into her brain. He was born that following February. And his mother. Whoever she was. She was seeing Erik. Supposedly. What if the father Cameron is searching for isn\\\\u2019t his father at all? Her mind combs through all she can remember of her conversations with the boy, anything he might have said about the man he\\\\u2019s searching for. A real estate developer, that one who has those billboards. He said something about a ring and a photograph, but Tova can\\\\u2019t recall any other details. Nothing about Cameron\\\\u2019s comments had ever made her think of Erik. And whatever the situation is, Cameron is convinced he has the right man. Perfectly confident. Erik was confident like that. Tova trails a finger over the deck chair\\\\u2019s armrest, tracing her nail on the woodgrain. A night breeze nudges the sunflowers in her moonlit garden, causing their heads to bob, like a personal audience who agrees with her every wishful thought. But these thoughts are nonsense. Erik couldn\\\\u2019t have had a child. Daphne Cassmore might have been dating any number of young men when she was eighteen. Carefree eighteen. The summer after senior year of high school. Who could judge her for that? It would be an exceptional stroke of luck for something like that to happen to her. But Daphne Cassmore would have found her somehow, surely? What mother would deprive her child of a grandparent? And anyway, Tova doesn\\\\u2019t believe in exceptional strokes of luck. Cat alights on the deck railing and tilts his head at her. Once again, she wonders what on earth she is going to do with him. The closing of the sale of her house, and her move to Charter Village, are imminent. They don\\\\u2019t allow pets. She called to check. He poises as if he\\\\u2019s about to jump on Tova\\\\u2019s lap, but instead he leaps to the ground and curls at her feet. As if he\\\\u2019s trying to distance himself already. \\\\n Amazing Bones Tova is washing Cat\\\\u2019s breakfast bowl when Janice calls to invite her to lunch. Lunch out, on a Monday? What could this be about? Janice suggests they meet at the Shop-Way deli, and she sounds surprised when Tova suggests the Tex-Mex place down in Elland instead. \\\\u201cReally? Okay. I\\\\u2019ll pick you up on my way,\\\\u201d Janice says. They\\\\u2019re seated in a pleasantly plush booth with tortilla chips and salsa between them when Janice finally brings it up. \\\\u201cThis week will be your last Knit-Wits, huh?\\\\u201d Tova nods. \\\\u201cI guess you assumed because there are only three of us left, we\\\\u2019d let you off without a farewell party?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh, nonsense. I don\\\\u2019t need a party.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, Barb said she\\\\u2019d bring cake.\\\\u201d Janice dredges a chip through the salsa. \\\\u201cSo we\\\\u2019ll have that, at least.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHow thoughtful of Barbara,\\\\u201d Tova says. \\\\u201cCake sounds lovely.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cLovely,\\\\u201d Janice repeats. \\\\u201cTova, pardon my language, but would you cut the shit for once and tell me exactly why you think you have to do this?\\\\u201d Ah, so that\\\\u2019s what this is about. \\\\u201cI beg your pardon?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThis!\\\\u201d Janice waves her hands around, as if the interior of the restaurant, with its quirky macrame wall hangings, is the offender. \\\\u201cSelling your house! Moving out of Sowell Bay! You\\\\u2019ve lived here all your life.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cCharter Village is very nice,\\\\u201d Tova says mildly. \\\\u201cMaybe it is, but these are our golden years. Why do you want to spend them with a bunch of strangers?\\\\u201d Janice\\\\u2019s voice cracks. \\\\u201cWhat about us?\\\\u201d Tova starts to respond, but the words catch in her throat. \\\\u201cAnd furthermore,\\\\u201d Janice continues, holding up a stern finger, like a judge in one of those courtroom dramas she enjoys watching, \\\\u201cwhat about Ethan Mack?\\\\u201d Tova starts. \\\\u201cWhat about him?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cTova, he\\\\u2019s gaga for you. Why can\\\\u2019t you give him a chance?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cEthan is a wonderful man, but Will and I were\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh, stop. Look, I realize I haven\\\\u2019t been in your shoes, but Peter and I have talked about it. When one of us goes, the other must move on. We\\\\u2019re not that old, Tova. We still have good years ahead of us. Decades, even. Seventy is the new sixty!\\\\u201d In spite of herself, Tova lets out a short chuckle. \\\\u201cWhere did you hear that? One of those talk shows?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhatever. Please, Tova, rethink this. If it\\\\u2019s really what you want, then fine, go. But it\\\\u2019s not the only way.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cJanice, you must understand something.\\\\u201d Tova folds her hands in her lap. \\\\u201cI am not like you and Mary Ann and Barbara. I don\\\\u2019t have children who will come stay with me when I\\\\u2019ve had a fall. I don\\\\u2019t have grandchildren who will stop over to unclog my drain or make sure I\\\\u2019m taking my pills. And I won\\\\u2019t put that burden on my friends and neighbors.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThere\\\\u2019s your problem,\\\\u201d says Janice softly. \\\\u201cAssuming it\\\\u2019s a burden.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cCharter Village might not be the only way, but it\\\\u2019s the best way.\\\\u201d Tova sets her jaw. \\\\u201cAnd besides, it\\\\u2019s done. I\\\\u2019m going to sign the papers for the sale of the house on Wednesday.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAnd when do you move into Charter Village?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNext week, but I\\\\u2019ll stay in one of those hotels down in Everett.\\\\u201d With a defeated smile, Janice says, \\\\u201cI suppose Barb and I will have to come visit once you move in, then. Maybe you can book us appointments at the fancy spa.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOf course,\\\\u201d Tova says. A chipper waitress arrives moments later and, with a cheery grin, spits out a list of specialty margarita flavors. Janice requests a diet soda. Tova orders black coffee. The waitress nods and trots away but returns a moment later to apologize and explain that they don\\\\u2019t have any coffee prepared at the moment. Not much demand for it in the afternoon. Would Tova like to wait fifteen minutes for it to brew? Or might she be interested in something from the espresso bar? Cappuccino, latte, mocha? \\\\u201cA small latte, I suppose,\\\\u201d Tova says a bit reluctantly. Espresso bar. How very indulgent. ON TUESDAY AFTERNOON, Tova readies herself for a trip to Shop-Way, her first since that disastrous dinner at Ethan\\\\u2019s house. And her last, perhaps. She just needs to pick up a few essentials. The fridge is still half-full, and her moving date inches closer. Never would she have thought she could go so long between grocery runs, but those freezer casseroles have had legs. All of the potatoes and noodles and gravy and cheese have added a certain plumpness to Tova\\\\u2019s cheeks, which she found herself admiring in her bathroom mirror this morning after she bathed. After she dressed, she even dabbed a bit of blush on her cheekbones. Four times before she leaves, she checks to make sure the Grateful Dead T-shirt is in her tote bag. This isn\\\\u2019t simply a shopping trip, after all. On her way out the front door, she\\\\u2019s somewhat startled to see the newspaper still sitting there on her front mat, coiled and waiting. She was so occupied this morning that it never occurred to her to take it in. Her subscription was supposed to be canceled, but when she pointed it out to the young man on the route the other day, he just shrugged and said he might as well bring her one as long as she was still there; he always has a bunch left over anyway. Tova had smiled and thanked him. He\\\\u2019s a nice kid, and she gave him a good tip last Christmas. In any case, her crossword needs are now being met through other channels. Last week, Janice challenged her to a competitive crossword game through a message that popped up on her cell phone, and with one tap of a button, there were crosswords galore right there on the little screen. So many crosswords. As many as anyone could ever want. Isn\\\\u2019t that something? Of course, Tova has won every match so far, but Janice is improving quickly. At the Shop-Way, Ethan is manning the deli when Tova enters the store. With a pen tucked behind his ear, he halts the conversation he\\\\u2019s having with a customer midsentence and waves. \\\\u201cHello, Ethan,\\\\u201d she calls, her voice even. She lifts a shopping basket from the stack at the store\\\\u2019s front. \\\\u201cAfternoon, love,\\\\u201d he says, giving her a resigned look before going back to taking the order of the group crowded into the booth. Tova shops thoughtfully, giving each item she adds to her cart an extra layer of scrutiny. Jams and jellies are on promotion: buy one, get one free. But Tova doesn\\\\u2019t need two jellies. She might not even need one. Of course, she won\\\\u2019t be needing her own jam at Charter Village, although her suite will have a small kitchenette with a refrigerator. She selects a small jar of raspberry preserves, which could be brought along if she doesn\\\\u2019t use it up this week. Two checkout lanes are running when she finishes, and she\\\\u2019s relieved to see that Ethan has finished with the group in the deli and is now tending the one on the left. It\\\\u2019s no contest to choose that one, even though the line is longer. She arranges her modest collection of groceries on the belt, then carefully tucks the T-shirt, which she\\\\u2019s rolled neatly, at the end, nestling it between her quart of milk and a waxy orange grapefruit. \\\\u201cCongratulations on the sale of your house.\\\\u201d Ethan clears his throat, as if trying to cough away the awkwardness. He rings through the bread, jam, coffee, eggs. Not looking up, he scans her packet of wafer crackers, weighs her single green apple. Finally, he picks up the white shirt, and he turns it over twice in his left hand while aiming the scanner with his right, looking for a UPC code, before recognition dawns on his face. His mouth falls open as he allows the shirt to unroll. \\\\u201cWhere on earth did you . . . ?\\\\u201d His voice sounds like it\\\\u2019s caught in a net. \\\\u201cI mean, how did you find . . . ?\\\\u201d Tova straightens. \\\\u201cI bought it on the internet.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou what?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt was one of those online auctions. Janice Kim helped me,\\\\u201d she admits. Suddenly stern, he asks, \\\\u201cHow much did you spend on this, Tova?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, I don\\\\u2019t see how that\\\\u2019s any of your concern.\\\\u201d He rolls the shirt back up and gives it a perturbed shake. \\\\u201cThese are expensive. Thousands of dollars.\\\\u201d There are three customers waiting in line behind Tova now. Two of them crane their necks, straining to soak up the drama. \\\\u201cThere\\\\u2019s no need to get upset,\\\\u201d she hisses. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m simply replacing the item I ruined.\\\\u201d Ethan holds the shirt close to his chest. \\\\u201cIt was just a T-shirt,\\\\u201d he mumbles. \\\\u201cIt was important to you,\\\\u201d Tova says, her voice shaky. \\\\u201cMany things are important to me.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m sorry,\\\\u201d Tova whispers. \\\\u201cDon\\\\u2019t say that, love.\\\\u201d His large green eyes are heavy. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019d give away a hundred of those bloody shirts to redo that supper at my house.\\\\u201d He holds the shirt back up, taking in the Grateful Dead concert image. He smiles at Tova. \\\\u201cYou really bought this on the internet?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIndeed. And I drove to Tukwila to pick it up.\\\\u201d Ethan\\\\u2019s eyes widen. \\\\u201cYou drove all the way down there?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYes.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOn the freeway?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, there wasn\\\\u2019t another practical route.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re quite a woman, Tova. Did you know that?\\\\u201d Tova doesn\\\\u2019t know how to respond, so she just holds out the stack of bills to pay for her groceries. But when she arrives back home, while she smears butter on a wafer cracker and slices the single green apple, she replays his words in her head on a loop. TOVA MEETS JESSICA SNELL at an attorney\\\\u2019s office down in Elland at eleven on Wednesday morning, as instructed, to sign her portion of the closing papers. The papers, it turns out, are not quite ready. The hard knot in Tova\\\\u2019s chest softens, briefly, at the notion that she might not have to do this today. But it\\\\u2019s a glitch with the copier; it will only delay things a few minutes. The receptionist apologizes profusely for this setback and offers Jessica and Tova coffee, which Jessica declines but Tova gladly accepts. It\\\\u2019s the watery kind, and the paper cup has a waxy aftertaste, but Tova sips it anyway. While they wait in a small conference room, Jessica tells Tova more about the buyers, which is not information that Tova asked for, necessarily. It\\\\u2019s a family from Texas. Three little ones. The husband\\\\u2019s job has relocated him, and he and his wife took a trip up this summer to scope out real estate. They fell hard for Tova\\\\u2019s house. The view, the architecture. They said that although they\\\\u2019ll be making plenty of updates, the house has amazing bones. \\\\u201cMy father would be pleased to hear that,\\\\u201d Tova says politely. The paperwork finally makes its entrance. A woman wearing slacks and a cantaloupe-colored blouse sits next to Tova and walks her through the forms. Tova\\\\u2019s pen scratches on the paper as she signs her name. \\\\u201cThe buyers do appreciate your willingness to close quickly,\\\\u201d Jessica says. \\\\u201cTheir agent wanted me to pass that along.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cCertainly,\\\\u201d Tova says. A quick closing suited her as well. Why drag it out? The Texans had been gracious, too, to push back the turning over of keys for a couple of days to accommodate her Charter Village move-in date. \\\\u201cAnd this is a little odd, but they also noted that the house was phenomenally neat and tidy when they did the inspection,\\\\u201d Jessica says with a genuine smile. \\\\u201cTheir agent told me the wife said it looked like something out of a magazine. I thought you might enjoy hearing that.\\\\u201d Tova lets out a small laugh. \\\\u201cAs I\\\\u2019m sure you\\\\u2019re aware, I am nothing if not neat and tidy.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cEveryone in Sowell Bay is aware of that. You\\\\u2019ll be missed, Tova.\\\\u201d With a smile and congratulations, the woman in the cantaloupe blouse shakes her hand, and then Jessica Snell shakes her hand, too. Tova never liked shaking hands, well, not with people, anyway. Octopuses are another story. But she clasps. So, it\\\\u2019s done. LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Tova ventures up to the attic, to what little is left of the piles of linens and photographs. It\\\\u2019s time to finish now. On the ceiling, the rafters glow in the afternoon sun. Tova eases herself down to lie on her back on the floor and stares up at the beams the way she used to when she was a teenager. Like the house is a great wooden monster and she\\\\u2019s looking, from inside, at its rib cage. It does indeed have amazing bones, and it will make a good home for someone. For this family from Texas. For their three little ones. Will the children use the attic as a playroom? Tova hopes so. She pictures three happy siblings, laughing together under the rafters, talking to one another in pint-sized Texas accents. Perhaps there will be more children; perhaps the parents are not done yet, and the family will grow, filling the house, bursting it from the seams like the large clan from Ethan\\\\u2019s unfulfilled dream. The parents will grow old atop this mountain of a family they\\\\u2019ve built, and even if parts of it crumble, from time to time, there will be enough left to support them. They will not have to pack up tea towels alone. She drags in a long breath and sits up. \\\\u201cEnough of that,\\\\u201d she says aloud. Enough of allowing one single summer night in 1989 to shape every last aspect of her life. Enough searching for answers that no longer exist. Enough of living with these ghosts, in this house. Charter Village will be a new start. For the next two hours, she packages up the remaining towels and sheets and other odds and ends. To a box of books she\\\\u2019s keeping, packed half-full so it won\\\\u2019t be too unwieldy, she adds the Sowell Bay High School yearbook where she first found Daphne Cassmore. She remembers the photo, the young woman\\\\u2019s smiling face, now pressed between the pages of the heavy book. Had it been a fool\\\\u2019s errand, attempting to find her? Perhaps, but how could she not try? Wherever and whoever she is, Daphne Cassmore is the last person who saw Erik alive. Tova will never be able to stop her gaze from lingering on faces in crowds that bear even a slight resemblance to that yearbook photo. On the other side of the picture window, a spotless blue sky holds court over the water, whose ripples shimmer gently as a speedboat cuts a wedge-shaped wake across the bay. How strange it will be at Charter Village, whose campus is several miles inland. How strange to wake up in the morning and not see the water. \\\\u201cI wish you could tell me,\\\\u201d she says to the bay. She will always wish this. But even knowing what happened that night can\\\\u2019t bring him back. Nothing can. She closes the box flaps and seals them up with tape. \\\\n A Big, Bold Lie Moth Sausage always played the same sequence of songs to end a show. Cameron strums the opening chords of the last number on his Fender, and even though the guitar isn\\\\u2019t plugged in, the sound fills Ethan\\\\u2019s small living room, where Cameron is sprawled on the sofa, waiting for his clothes to finish drying downstairs. It\\\\u2019s Wednesday, after all, and Tova is always going on about how Wednesday is laundry day. Apparently, this must\\\\u2019ve wormed its way into Cameron\\\\u2019s brain, because without really thinking about it, the first thing he did when he woke up this morning was bundle up his dirty clothes from the floor of the camper, grab his jug of knockoff Tide, and head for the utility room in Ethan\\\\u2019s basement. With a showy strum, he hits one of the trickier chords just right. Hell yeah, still got it. He\\\\u2019s hardly played this summer, and the instrument\\\\u2019s coarse metal strings are sharp on the tender pads of his fingers. But it\\\\u2019s a good type of pain. Yawning, he nests the guitar between two lumpy sofa cushions, then grabs a bite of cereal from his bowl on the side table and swipes milk off his chin with the back of his hand before standing and sauntering over to the front window. His camper looks kind of dirty from here, the glare of the sun highlighting the grimy windshield. Maybe he\\\\u2019ll wash it this afternoon, before he goes to meet Avery for their paddle date. Ethan\\\\u2019s patchy front lawn is fading to a tawny brown. Everyone keeps talking about how hot and dry it\\\\u2019s been. \\\\u201cHot and dry\\\\u201d has a different meaning in Modesto, but lately Cameron finds himself nodding along, as if the Modesto is slowly draining out of him. When did that start to happen? \\\\u201cMornin\\\\u2019.\\\\u201d Ethan comes through the living room, leaving the smell of soap in his wake. Cameron follows him into the kitchen. His beard looks damp, and he\\\\u2019s attempted to slick down the wiry fuzz that normally floats over his mostly bald head. Instead of wearing a ratty old rock band tee or one of his usual flannels, he\\\\u2019s got some striped golf-type collared shirt on. Cameron hadn\\\\u2019t realized Ethan owned something so . . . normal. The shirt is tucked into a pair of khaki pants that are an inch too short, the waist saddled under his bulblike belly by a braided-leather belt. \\\\u201cWhy are you dressed like an extra from Caddyshack?\\\\u201d A corner of Cameron\\\\u2019s mouth ticks up, teasing. \\\\u201cDo you have another date with Tova?\\\\u201d Ethan fills his teakettle at the sink. \\\\u201cTova? No.\\\\u201d With a click, he turns on the burner and sets the kettle on the coil. \\\\u201cI mean, I\\\\u2019ll stop over there this week to say goodbye, a\\\\u2019course.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh. Right.\\\\u201d Cameron wishes he could take back the Caddyshack jab. \\\\u201cDoing an interview at the store today,\\\\u201d Ethan says. He takes a travel mug down from the cupboard and drops in a teabag of his usual English Breakfast. \\\\u201cNeed to hire a new day manager, or a temporary one, anyway. You heard what happened to Melody Patterson, right? Her little boy\\\\u2019s got some awful disease. Had to be admitted to the children\\\\u2019s hospital down in Seattle. She\\\\u2019s taking an extended leave of absence to care for him.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThat\\\\u2019s terrible,\\\\u201d Cameron says. And it is. Melody Patterson is a nice lady. But it\\\\u2019s Ethan\\\\u2019s first words that sting him, slicing through poor Melody\\\\u2019s tragedy to spear him personally. A manager. Had Ethan even considered Cameron for the position? He remembers his first night here, drunk on expensive scotch, when he asked for a job at the store. Ethan starts going on about Melody\\\\u2019s husband, and something about how their insurance is being a \\\\u201creal pain in the arse\\\\u201d about the kid\\\\u2019s coverage. Details that are surely none of his damn business, but Ethan clearly has no boundaries when chatting with his customers while scanning their milk and weighing their tomatoes. \\\\u201cHey,\\\\u201d Cameron interrupts. \\\\u201cAre you still taking applications?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cFor the manager job? I s\\\\u2019pose so. Why, do you have someone in mind?\\\\u201d The tips of Cameron\\\\u2019s ears burn so hot, they must be glowing. \\\\u201cMe, obviously.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou?\\\\u201d Ethan looks genuinely surprised. \\\\u201cWell . . . maybe.\\\\u201d Then he shakes his head. \\\\u201cSee, it\\\\u2019s a manager job. Would normally be looking for someone with years of experience. Need to be familiar with all the systems. Inventory, point of sale, even a bit of bookkeeping. It\\\\u2019s not to be taken lightly.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cDo you really think I couldn\\\\u2019t do . . .\\\\u201d Cameron yanks back the words before they come tumbling out. Do you really think I couldn\\\\u2019t do your job? He tries again. \\\\u201cLook. I might not have years of experience. I don\\\\u2019t even have a degree or whatever. But we both know I\\\\u2019m smart.\\\\u201d His voice wavers. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m really smart.\\\\u201d Ethan\\\\u2019s eyes widen. \\\\u201cI never said you weren\\\\u2019t smart, Cameron.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, then, I can learn.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAye, you could.\\\\u201d Ethan pops the top on his travel mug. \\\\u201cIf you really want to work in the grocery business, I\\\\u2019ll show you the ropes. Nothin\\\\u2019 would please me more. But right this minute, I need to fill this position with someone . . . already qualified.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh, give me a break.\\\\u201d Cameron stomps over to the kitchen window, nearly tripping over one of the kitchen chairs on his way. \\\\u201cWhat exactly are the qualifications to work at Shop-Way, anyway? Running your mouth all the time?\\\\u201d He turns back and glares at Ethan. Ethan\\\\u2019s usual reddish cheeks grow even redder. Cameron knows he should stop, but he keeps digging. \\\\u201cAiring the whole town\\\\u2019s dirty laundry?\\\\u201d Dig, dig. \\\\u201cTalking shit about people\\\\u2019s private lives?\\\\u201d Dig, dig, dig. \\\\u201cSpreading rumors about my mom?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI was trying to find her.\\\\u201d Ethan\\\\u2019s voice is quiet but firm. \\\\u201cI was trying to help.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI never asked for your help.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI wasn\\\\u2019t doing it for you.\\\\u201d Cameron is about to fire back when Ethan\\\\u2019s words catch up with him. \\\\u201cI was doing it for her,\\\\u201d Ethan continues. \\\\u201cFor Tova. To help bring her . . . closure.\\\\u201d From the basement, the dryer buzzes, the sound muffled through the kitchen floor. Cycle complete. \\\\u201cWhatever,\\\\u201d Cameron mutters, stalking off toward his camper. He\\\\u2019ll come back later for the laundry. IT\\\\u2019S A CRAPPY, fitful nap, but it\\\\u2019s better than nothing. Aunt Jeanne always said, when shit starts to go sideways first thing in the morning, go back to bed and start over. Sounds about right for today. But at some point, Cameron must\\\\u2019ve fallen into a deep sleep, because it\\\\u2019s no longer morning when he wakes to incessant buzzing. Afternoon light pours through the camper\\\\u2019s windows, and he squints as he ruffles through his bedding in search of his phone. Shit. Avery. The paddle date. Is it past four? The camper is hot and stuffy inside, the way it always is when it\\\\u2019s been baking in the sun all day. Where the hell is his phone? What happened to the alarm he set? Finally, he finds it on the floor, under a dirty sock that must\\\\u2019ve escaped this morning\\\\u2019s laundry roundup. He\\\\u2019s about to answer, a string of apologies ready to stream from his sleep-slick tongue, when he realizes it\\\\u2019s only three. Then he registers the number. A Seattle area code, but it\\\\u2019s not Avery. \\\\u201cHello?\\\\u201d A woman\\\\u2019s voice replies, \\\\u201cMr. Cassmore?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cUh, yeah? I mean, yes, that\\\\u2019s me.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cExcellent. I\\\\u2019m glad I reached you. This is Michelle Yates with Brinks Development.\\\\u201d Cameron sits straight up. \\\\u201cI know you\\\\u2019ve contacted us several times trying to secure an appointment, and I apologize for the delay. Mr. Brinks has been out of town. But he has returned, and as it happens, he has an opening in his schedule later today. I know it\\\\u2019s last-minute, but would you be available to meet then?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cMeet? With . . . him? Today?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThis is Cameron Cassmore the developer, correct?\\\\u201d A note of doubt creeps into Michelle\\\\u2019s voice. Okay, so that was a tiny fib. Michelle goes on, \\\\u201cYou left several messages a couple of weeks ago, looking to meet with Mr. Brinks about a new opportunity?\\\\u201d All right, maybe it was an actual fabrication. Cameron clears his throat. \\\\u201cOh. Yeah, definitely. That\\\\u2019s me.\\\\u201d He can\\\\u2019t believe that story he spun on those voice mails worked. It actually worked. All these weeks of showing up at closed offices and empty bluffs, and it was this that worked. A big, bold lie. Ignoring the twinge of guilt that nags at him, he says, \\\\u201cYes, I can be there. What time?\\\\u201d Michelle tells him to be there at six o\\\\u2019clock, and gives him a Seattle address, which he scrawls on the back of a gas station receipt. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019ll want to take the elevator all the way down to the basement,\\\\u201d she adds, which strikes Cameron as odd. A basement office? As soon as he hangs up with Michelle, Cameron calls Terry, who answers on the fourth ring, sounding distracted. \\\\u201cI hate to ask,\\\\u201d Cameron says, \\\\u201cbut would it be a problem if took this afternoon off? I could still be there to clean tonight. I just have a . . . thing.\\\\u201d He inhales, then gives Terry the details about the situation with Simon Brinks in what he hopes is a professional manner. \\\\u201cSure, Cameron.\\\\u201d Terry still sounds preoccupied. Had he heard a word of what Cameron said? \\\\u201cThanks, sir. And, um . . . maybe soon, could we talk about hiring me on permanently for the cleaning part? You know, like . . . not temporary?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSure, sure.\\\\u201d A flurry of muffled voices on the line. \\\\u201cHey, kiddo, I\\\\u2019ve got to run. No worries about tonight. Take your time, okay?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOkay.\\\\u201d He ends the call, shrugging off Terry\\\\u2019s weirdness. Probably just caught him at a busy time. Then he opens his map app and enters the Seattle address Michelle gave him. It\\\\u2019s a two-hour drive. Which means that at four, he needs to be on the road. Not on a paddleboard. Avery will understand. He\\\\u2019ll stop by the shop on his way out of town and tell her in person. SHORTLY BEFORE FOUR, he pushes open the door of the Sowell Bay Paddle Shop. A figure pops up from behind a rack of wet suits in the far corner of the store. To Cameron\\\\u2019s surprise, it\\\\u2019s not Avery. It\\\\u2019s her son, Marco. The kid gives him a stiff nod, then ducks back down behind the rack without a word. \\\\u201cUm, hey,\\\\u201d Cameron says. \\\\u201cYour mom here?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cShe went on some errand,\\\\u201d Marco is kneeling on the polished wood floor next to an open box, holding some black plastic thing with a trigger and a thin strip of waxy-looking paper trailing from its snout. A pricing gun. \\\\u201cI didn\\\\u2019t know you worked here,\\\\u201d Cameron says, poking at a display of bright orange flipper fins. These are new since last time he was here. They\\\\u2019re lined up in a perfect row from smallest to largest. It looks like someone stole the feet from a family of ducks and strung them up on the wall. Marco grunts. \\\\u201cNot like I have a choice.\\\\u201d He slaps a price sticker on the tag of a neoprene life vest and threads its topmost loop onto a long metal peg coming out of the wall. \\\\u201cAh. Compulsory child labor. A rite of passage.\\\\u201d Cameron laughs. Marco doesn\\\\u2019t respond. \\\\u201cSo, any idea when your mom will be back?\\\\u201d Cameron glances toward the front door. \\\\u201cWe were supposed to meet here at four.\\\\u201d He checks the time. Five minutes until. Marco looks up. \\\\u201cWere?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah. We were supposed to take a couple of boards out on the water, but something . . . came up.\\\\u201d Cameron bites his lip, stopping short of telling Marco the whole story. He doesn\\\\u2019t owe any explanation to a teenager. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re standing her up.\\\\u201d Marco\\\\u2019s voice is flat. \\\\u201cOf course not. She\\\\u2019ll totally understand.\\\\u201d Marco fires off another sticker. \\\\u201cRight.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAnd I came here to tell her myself.\\\\u201d Cameron checks the time again. On the road at four. The most important meeting of his life. He can\\\\u2019t be late. He clears his throat. \\\\u201cThing is, I kind of have to go. Could you let your mom know I came by? Tell her I\\\\u2019m sorry for canceling?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSure. I\\\\u2019ll tell her.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThanks, man.\\\\u201d Cameron ducks out of the store, and by the time four o\\\\u2019clock hits, he\\\\u2019s headed toward the freeway. \\\\n The Sob Seattle is a dizzying maze of buildings and bypasses, tunnels and byways, skyscrapers that might be built right on top of the highway itself, like something from an impossible Lego set. There are exits left, exits right, viaducts and express lanes, the overpasses and underpasses all curling around each other like a bunch of huge concrete spaghetti noodles jammed against the hillside that rises steeply from the water. He drove through it before, on his way from the airport, but it hits him more clearly now. Compared to Modesto, this really is a different world. When he spots the exit for Capitol Hill coming up, he flicks on the turn signal. Stay right, then turn left, three blocks and a right. He\\\\u2019d memorized the series of turns, the post-freeway route through the city streets, just in case. Finally, he turns onto the right street and starts looking for the street number, drawing irritated honks from passing traffic as he inches along, scanning the tightly packed storefronts, coffee shops and juice bars and vintage clothing stores with their goods spilled out onto sidewalk racks. It\\\\u2019s ten minutes until six on a perfect August evening, and the neighborhood bustles, a mixture of hipsters and neighborhood folks tethered to dogs. Commuters with messenger bags and purposeful strides. Here\\\\u2019s the address Michelle Yates had given him. He double-checks to make sure, because it\\\\u2019s a plain gray door. After weeks of trying to get this meeting . . . this is Brinks Development? He had expected some shiny office tower, but maybe this is how successful people do it in Seattle. Shaved yam instead of pastrami and humble storefronts instead of steel skyscrapers. By some miracle, on his second circle around the block, he spots an open space right in front. He cuts the ignition and checks his phone. Still nothing from Avery. Should he send a text? Nah, he\\\\u2019ll call her after. By then, he\\\\u2019ll have a story about his father to tell. The slam of the camper\\\\u2019s cab door is swallowed up by the busy city sounds. He feeds the meter with two crumb-coated quarters he digs out of the console. To Cameron\\\\u2019s surprise, the plain gray door is unlocked. It opens to a nondescript vestibule, apparently an apartment building. On the wall to his left there\\\\u2019s a row of slightly dinged-up metal mailboxes, a half dozen of them. Several fliers and pieces of junk mail litter the floor. On the right, there\\\\u2019s a staircase that only goes up. Directly ahead, on the back wall, there\\\\u2019s an elevator, and Cameron notices that it has call buttons for both up and down. Michelle had said to take the elevator to the basement. \\\\u201cDown the rabbit hole,\\\\u201d he says to himself as the elevator dings. Right away as he exits, there\\\\u2019s this weird smell. Something waxy and spicy, like cinnamon, out of place for the middle of summer. It hits Cameron as soon as the elevator doors open. It must be coming from the candles, which are everywhere in the dark hallway, candles against mirrors on both sides making it look like there are a million little flames going off into infinity. Upon further inspection, he discovers that they\\\\u2019re fake candles. Which makes sense. What fire code allows someone to put so many candles in a basement? What the hell is this place? He follows a threadbare gray carpet down the hall and around a corner, which deposits him inside the world\\\\u2019s tiniest cocktail lounge. It\\\\u2019s empty. A short bar, five stools tucked underneath. Warm light reflects off the brass ceiling tiles, giving the whole place a yellowish glow. On the bar, there\\\\u2019s a small paper square propped in a holder. A menu. Mudminnow\\\\u2019s Bespoke Libations, it says at the top, followed by a list of drinks with ridiculous names. He blinks at the prices, making sure he\\\\u2019s reading them right. Do people not realize they can get a six-pack at any grocery store for half the price of one of these libations? He pulls out a bar stool and sits. Something clinks, and Cameron looks up to see a girl come through a doorway behind the bar. She has short, bright green hair that reminds Cameron of flattened grass. She balances a stack of highball glasses in each hand, and her eyebrows register the tiniest moment of surprise before she begins to unload the glassware into some unseen shelf down in the well. \\\\u201cWe open at eight,\\\\u201d she says, without looking up. \\\\u201cI have a meeting.\\\\u201d Cameron clears his throat. \\\\u201cWith Mr. Brinks.\\\\u201d The grass-haired girl looks up. The expression on her face is painfully blank, as if Cameron were the least interesting thing she\\\\u2019s ever encountered. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m serious,\\\\u201d he says. \\\\u201cMichelle set it up.\\\\u201d He hopes it\\\\u2019s okay to call Michelle by her first name. The girl shrugs. \\\\u201cOkay,\\\\u201d she says, ducking away. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ll let him know.\\\\u201d SIMON BRINKS. Cameron has repeated the name in his head so many times these last two months, has studied so many photos of the coiffed man blown up huge on his billboards, that when this disheveled dude emerges from behind the bar with a tired smile, he almost doesn\\\\u2019t believe it could be him. \\\\u201cHi,\\\\u201d Cameron says, his voice suddenly shaky and nervous. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI know who you are, Cameron.\\\\u201d Behind the bar, Simon\\\\u2019s smile broadens. \\\\u201cYou do?\\\\u201d Cameron\\\\u2019s heart hammers, but is it from nerves, or rage? Somehow the idea of socking or extorting this guy seems preposterous. \\\\u201cWhy do you think I suggested this venue?\\\\u201d Simon Brinks waves a hand around the tiny room. \\\\u201cAs I\\\\u2019m sure you\\\\u2019ve discovered, I have lots of offices and properties, but this place was originally for Daphne. It\\\\u2019s the perfect spot for us to meet.\\\\u201d Cameron\\\\u2019s pulse is pounding now. For Daphne? Is Brinks about to fess up to a lifetime of deadbeat parenthood, just like that? Simon smiles. \\\\u201cYou met Natalie.\\\\u201d He tips his head toward the doorway behind the bar, through which the grass-haired girl had disappeared. \\\\u201cShe knows the whole story.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThe whole story.\\\\u201d Cameron can barely force the words out. \\\\u201cWell, sure. She\\\\u2019s my daughter.\\\\u201d Daughter. His head whirls. A father and . . . a sister? Before he can stop himself, his eyes dart to the doorway behind the bar again. Could that girl with the strange hair really be his half sister? Simon clasps his hands and leans on the bar. \\\\u201cYou have your mother\\\\u2019s eyes, you know.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cMy mother.\\\\u201d Cameron swallows hard. \\\\u201cDaphne always had those incredible eyes.\\\\u201d Cameron sucks in an embarrassingly sharp breath. She did have pretty eyes, didn\\\\u2019t she? He wonders whether he\\\\u2019s inventing this or if he actually remembers. \\\\u201cAnyway,\\\\u201d Brinks says, with a slight shrug that seems to knock the conversation in a more casual direction. \\\\u201cCan I pour you a drink?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cA drink?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI make a mean old-fashioned.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cUh, a beer is fine. Whatever you have,\\\\u201d Cameron blurts. His ears burn. Why does he care? Is impressing one\\\\u2019s father a hardwired predisposition? Without a word, Brinks reaches down into a below-counter refrigerator and rises again with two longnecks clutched between his fingers. The bottles hiss as he pops the caps. \\\\u201cCheers,\\\\u201d he says, lofting one. \\\\u201cCheers,\\\\u201d Cameron echoes. How bizarre will this story be later? When he tells it to Avery and Elizabeth, in turn? \\\\u201cSo, you have questions about your mother, naturally,\\\\u201d Brinks says, after a long pull on his beer. Cameron pulls himself up by the shoulders. No more chickenshit. His voice is even when he says, \\\\u201cI have questions about you.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh?\\\\u201d Simon cocks his head. \\\\u201cOkay, well. Everyone thinks I\\\\u2019m some sort of enigma, but for you, I\\\\u2019m an open book.\\\\u201d He smiles. \\\\u201cSo, shoot.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhy did you . . .\\\\u201d Cameron swallows, then regroups before trying again. \\\\u201cI mean . . . how could you . . .\\\\u201d A sob messes up his throat. Why didn\\\\u2019t he make a secondary plan for when the words wouldn\\\\u2019t come? \\\\u201cHow could I what?\\\\u201d Simon Brinks scrapes his chin. \\\\u201cLet her go? Well, I cared about her.\\\\u201d Cameron\\\\u2019s face hardens, and his voice is pure acid when he spits out, \\\\u201cBut you never cared about me.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou? Of course I care about you. You\\\\u2019re her son. But what could I do, once she was\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m your son, too!\\\\u201d Cameron\\\\u2019s voice cracks. Simon Brinks takes a step backward, recovers. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m sorry, Cameron. You\\\\u2019re not,\\\\u201d he says softly. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m your son,\\\\u201d Cameron repeats. Brinks shakes his head. \\\\u201cThat\\\\u2019s never how it was with me and Daphne.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBut it must have been.\\\\u201d To Cameron\\\\u2019s horror, his chin starts to tremble. He knew this might happen, right? The whole thing being a dead end. He prepared himself for this, or tried to. So why is he about to lose his shit right now? \\\\u201cLike I said, I\\\\u2019m not surprised you\\\\u2019re here, Cameron, but\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhy did you give her your class ring?\\\\u201d Cameron fishes it from his pocket and drops it onto the bar. Simon picks it up and a faint smile comes over his face as he examines it. When he turns it over and looks at the underside, the smile fades. \\\\u201cThis isn\\\\u2019t mine,\\\\u201d he says quietly. \\\\u201cOh, come on. I saw the picture.\\\\u201d Brinks carefully places the ring on the bar. \\\\u201cDaphne was my best friend,\\\\u201d he says. \\\\u201cLook, I know how that sounds, but we really were just friends. Best friends.\\\\u201d Cameron is about to fire back. But then he remembers Aunt Jeanne\\\\u2019s constant digs about him and Elizabeth. A heavy feeling sinks through him like a lead balloon. He\\\\u2019s no closer to finding his father than he was two months ago. \\\\u201cYou never, um . . . slept with her?\\\\u201d Cameron hates how crass the question sounds. \\\\u201cNo, I did not.\\\\u201d Brinks chuckles. Then his face goes somber. \\\\u201cLook, I\\\\u2019ll do a cheek swab if you want. I\\\\u2019m a hundred percent sure on this one.\\\\u201d He picks up the class ring and turns it over again before replacing it on the bar. \\\\u201cHang on. I\\\\u2019ll be right back.\\\\u201d He returns a few minutes later with a beat-up hardcover book and something cupped in his hand. The book gives off a puff of dust when he sets it on the bar. The cover reads SOWELL BAY HIGH SCHOOL, CLASS OF 1989. Presumably the source of all those photos someone scanned and posted, including the one of Simon and Daphne on the pier. Then Brinks extends his palm. \\\\u201cThis one is mine, see.\\\\u201d Cameron picks up the ring and holds it in his left hand, while holding one he\\\\u2019s brought with him in his right. The weight feels identical. So close, yet . . . wrong. Brinks tips his head toward the back of the bar. \\\\u201cThere\\\\u2019s a big unfinished space back there. I use it for storage. But I suppose it\\\\u2019s also sort of fitting that all this high school stuff lives down here. It was supposed to be our place, after all.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOur place\\\\u201d? What\\\\u2019s that supposed to mean? Cameron turns the ring over, expecting to see the EELS engraving, but to his surprise, it says SOB. \\\\u201cWhat\\\\u2019s SOB?\\\\u201d he asks. Brinks chuckles. \\\\u201cMy initials. I\\\\u2019m Simon Orville Brinks. Mind you, I don\\\\u2019t advertise that, because the jokes practically write themselves. Lucky son of a bitch, huh?\\\\u201d Cameron stares at the two gold rings on the bar top. \\\\u201cYou had it engraved with your initials? Did everyone do that?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cMost people did, I guess.\\\\u201d Brinks shrugs. \\\\u201cLots of people tried to get cute with the personalization. A bunch of youth-group types all got theirs with \\\\u2018GOD.\\\\u2019 And I\\\\u2019m sure more than one kid had a ring that said \\\\u2018ASS.\\\\u2019 I thought about getting \\\\u2018ASS,\\\\u2019 but my mama would\\\\u2019ve shanked me.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cDo you remember anything about this one?\\\\u201d Cameron picks up EELS. Whoever he is, he must be a big fan of marine life. Or sushi. Did he pay extra for that fourth letter? Brinks shakes his head. \\\\u201cI wish I could help you.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou don\\\\u2019t know EELS?\\\\u201d Brinks adds softly, \\\\u201cI never knew my father, either.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah, and somehow you still ended up a zillionaire.\\\\u201d Cameron\\\\u2019s shoulders slump. \\\\u201cI worked hard,\\\\u201d Brinks says, and there\\\\u2019s an edge to his voice now. \\\\u201cLook, I came from Sowell Bay, too. Do you know how your mother and I met? Became best friends?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cUm . . . no?\\\\u201d Cameron honestly hadn\\\\u2019t thought about this. Even when he thought they were together, he\\\\u2019d assumed they met at school, like everyone else. \\\\u201cWe lived in the same crappy apartment building; she lived there for a while our junior and senior year,\\\\u201d Brinks says. \\\\u201cOn the wrong side of the highway.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI didn\\\\u2019t know there was a wrong side of the highway in Sowell Bay.\\\\u201d Brinks lets out a hard laugh. \\\\u201cWell, these days, the whole place is sort of on the wrong side of the highway, but it\\\\u2019s turning back around.\\\\u201d His tone shifts; he\\\\u2019s talking business now. \\\\u201cLots of development these last few years. I\\\\u2019m doing a waterfront condo project up there. Really nice units.\\\\u201d Cameron nods. For a sparse second, he wonders whether Brinks would hire him to work the project. But he\\\\u2019d probably ask for references, and, well . . . that\\\\u2019s a no-go. Even for his former best friend\\\\u2019s son. \\\\u201cAnyway.\\\\u201d Brinks leans over, propping his elbows on the bar again. \\\\u201cI asked you to meet me here instead of at my regular office because I thought you might get a kick out of seeing it.\\\\u201d He picks up the cocktail menu and, staring at it, says, \\\\u201cLike I said, I made this place for her.\\\\u201d Cameron looks around the tiny lounge, now thoroughly baffled. A ridiculously small bar in the basement of a nondescript apartment building on Capitol Hill . . . for his mom? \\\\u201cWe talked about something like this, together, once we grew up a little. Mind you, this was back in the eighties, when speakeasies weren\\\\u2019t a total hipster clich\\\\u00e9.\\\\u201d Brinks rolls his eyes. \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t even know how two teenagers come up with that sort of idea, but we used to spend hours talking about it.\\\\u201d His face grows more somber. \\\\u201cOf course, that was before her . . . problems.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cProblems,\\\\u201d Cameron mutters. Brinks is still studying the menu in his hands. \\\\u201cShe even picked the name of the place, strange as it is.\\\\u201d He looks up with a half smile. \\\\u201cMudminnow. It\\\\u2019s a\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s a tiny fish,\\\\u201d Cameron cuts in. \\\\u201cThey live in rivers and other fresh water. Can survive really bad conditions. Extreme temperatures, hardly any oxygen in the water. So they\\\\u2019re usually the last thing to survive when shit goes south. They\\\\u2019re like the cockroaches of the tiny-fish world. But with a much cooler name.\\\\u201d Brinks gapes. \\\\u201cHow on earth do you know all of that?\\\\u201d Cameron shrugs and explains that he read it somewhere, once. \\\\u201cI retain random knowledge. I kind of can\\\\u2019t help it.\\\\u201d Brinks laughs. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re exactly like your mother, you know.\\\\u201d Cameron\\\\u2019s mouth drops open. \\\\u201cI am?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh, absolutely. She wanted to apply to be on Jeopardy! after we graduated.\\\\u201d He clears his throat. \\\\u201cHer family never understood her. She hid her real self from them, I think. Even from her sister.\\\\u201d Big, hot, fat tears hang in the corners of Cameron\\\\u2019s eyes. He can feel that his lips are pressed into an embarrassing, involuntary grimace. \\\\u201cThat\\\\u2019s just the face she made when something unpleasant surprised her,\\\\u201d Brinks says. Cameron presses a fist against his pursed lips. \\\\u201cI guess I always assumed I got this weird photographic memory from my father.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, maybe from him, too,\\\\u201d Brinks says. \\\\u201cDaphne never told me who your father was.\\\\u201d Cameron snorts softly. \\\\u201cThat makes two of us.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cDaphne was an oddly private person sometimes. We were incredibly close, but I know there are many parts of her life she never shared with me. This was one of them. I\\\\u2019m sure she had her reasons.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah, well, because of her reasons, I grew up with no parents. I\\\\u2019m sure she had good reasons for abandoning me, too.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI have no doubt she did,\\\\u201d Brinks says, without a trace of sarcasm. \\\\u201cShe loved you, Cameron, more than anything in the world. I know that much. Anything she did, it was from a place of love.\\\\u201d Something clatters in a semi-close sort of way, probably from beyond the door behind the bar. Is the grass-haired girl listening in on all of this? What was the daughter\\\\u2019s name? Natalie? A wave of nausea hits him square in the gut. She knows the whole story. Her father\\\\u2019s brilliant best friend who got pregnant and went off the rails, and the son who might come looking for them someday. As usual, Cameron is the last to know. Brinks sighs. \\\\u201cI wish I could tell you more. I feel terrible that you came all the way up here, expecting one thing and finding . . . another.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cDo you know where she is?\\\\u201d Cameron twists his hands together in his lap. Did he really ask that? Does he even want to know? But, to his semi-relief, Simon just shakes his head and says, \\\\u201cNo, not anymore. I haven\\\\u2019t seen her in several years.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat was she\\\\u2014I mean, where\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cShe was living in Eastern Washington somewhere, back then. She showed up at my house. Needed cash. Which I gave her, of course. But it was clear she was still struggling, Cameron. Still using.\\\\u201d His brow creases. \\\\u201cMaybe I shouldn\\\\u2019t have given her the money? I don\\\\u2019t know. Part of me wanted to drag her into my house, put her up in the guest room. Fix her. But I had my hands full with Natalie already. And, well . . . you can\\\\u2019t fix someone who is determined to stay broken.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cRight.\\\\u201d Cameron fakes a smile. \\\\u201cI guess I\\\\u2019m a chip off the old block.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cDon\\\\u2019t sell yourself short, Cameron.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI can\\\\u2019t even put trash liners in the right way.\\\\u201d Brinks shoots him a puzzled look. \\\\u201cAt the aquarium. I\\\\u2019ve been working there, chopping fish and cleaning. And the trash cans\\\\u2014oh, never mind.\\\\u201d Cameron cuts off his own pointless rambling. Simon Brinks, renowned real estate tycoon and speakeasy owner, from the wrong side of the highway but bootstrapped his way into wild success, doesn\\\\u2019t want to hear about janitor problems. After a long pause, Brinks says, \\\\u201cDaphne would\\\\u2019ve been proud of you, Cameron.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYeah, I\\\\u2019m sure.\\\\u201d Cameron slaps a five-dollar bill on the bar, hoping that will cover a Mudminnow\\\\u2019s beer. Close enough, anyway. Brinks pushes away the cash, but Cameron is already halfway to the door. \\\\n A New Route Back in the cab of the parked camper, Cameron smacks the steering wheel. He checks his phone, anticipating a message from Avery, hoping for an excuse to call her back and unload the events of the last hour on a sympathetic ear, but there\\\\u2019s nothing. Well, now what? He drums his fingers on the dash and watches the steady stream of Capitol Hill foot traffic go by. People grabbing dinner, picking up dry cleaning, window-shopping. All of them, with their normal, happy lives. Screw them. How long does he sit there before the phone dings? When it does, he jumps. A text message, but it\\\\u2019s not from Avery, it\\\\u2019s from Brad. A photo. Cameron taps on it. A tiny baby squints back at him, its squishy red face wrapped up in a light blue blanket. It does look like an alien spawn, but a cute alien spawn. A single quadrant of Elizabeth\\\\u2019s face is visible in the photo, but Cameron can tell she\\\\u2019s beaming. Not dying from a precipitous childbirth: a benefit of the twenty-first century. Cameron closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He texts back, Bro, you\\\\u2019re a dad! Brad responds seconds later with the head-exploding emoji. While he\\\\u2019s texting, he writes one to Avery, too. Hey, can we talk? He fires the message off into the cellular-network void, then shifts the camper into gear and pulls out of the parking space. Traffic is horrible leaving Seattle, but Cameron couldn\\\\u2019t tell you whether he\\\\u2019s been sitting in gridlock for ten minutes or three hours. The camper creeps along, and brake lights from the sea of idling cars blend together, a haze of smeary red. On the passenger seat, his phone dings repeatedly, and while stopped he steals a look, thinking it might be Avery, but it\\\\u2019s Brad again. More pictures of the baby. He shoves the phone under a fast-food bag that\\\\u2019s sitting on the seat. Out of sight, out of mind. But his mind has other ideas. And it will not shut up about them. From somewhere deep in his brain, a voice needles him. None of this was ever real, it nags. Too good to be true. This isn\\\\u2019t your life. This is not your home. He wasn\\\\u2019t your father. She\\\\u2019s not your girlfriend. At least he has a job he doesn\\\\u2019t hate. How many times has Tova assured him that Terry is definitely planning to offer him the permanent position? And that it\\\\u2019s well-deserved? Even Cameron must admit that his glass polishing has come a long way. He makes that shit sparkle. And he can do the entire loop with the mop, including all the random nooks and crannies, in under an hour now. But then, the needling voice cuts in, why didn\\\\u2019t he offer the job? Especially when Cameron asked about it this afternoon? You\\\\u2019re not as good as you think you are, the voice sneers. Not even qualified to run a small-town supermarket. \\\\u201cShut up,\\\\u201d Cameron mutters to himself, swinging into the left-most lane and stepping on the gas. Eventually, traffic thins out, and at some point, the fuel light comes on. Cameron blinks at it. He\\\\u2019s only twenty-something miles from Sowell Bay. He could probably make it. Live on the edge. But he pulls off at the next exit and finds a gas station. The convenience store cashier gives him a pleasant smile as she rings up his bag of chips and a bottle of soda. Dinner. Cameron doesn\\\\u2019t smile back. It\\\\u2019s like he doesn\\\\u2019t remember how. His face is frozen in neutral as the clerk asks him how he\\\\u2019s doing tonight in a making-conversation sort of way. He ignores the question and instead tells her add on a pack of smokes. While gasoline glugs from the pump nozzle into the camper, he scrolls his phone, but it\\\\u2019s purely reflexive, like his eyes are registering that words and photos are rolling by but his brain isn\\\\u2019t downloading any of it. Until a picture catches his attention. Katie. Did she unblock him? He taps her name, and sure enough, her profile loads. There she is, with her haughty smile. Like she invented the world, and he\\\\u2019s just lucky enough to live in it. She\\\\u2019s posted a million new pictures this summer. Cameron whizzes through her feed. In half of the photos, some asshat has his arm slung around her, always wearing some idiotic wraparound sunglasses so that Cameron can\\\\u2019t even see the guy\\\\u2019s stupid face. Has he moved into her apartment yet? He probably remembered to put his name on the lease. Works in some boring office. Drives a brand-new SUV and has never once needed the four-wheel drive. Uses an electric toothbrush. They probably get together with his parents for dinner on the weekends. Screw every last one of these people with their normal, happy lives. Cameron will never get there, no matter how hard he tries. Not even here in Washington. He opens his map app. Types in a new route. Sowell Bay to Modesto. Fifteen hours. \\\\n An Early Arrival The doors are propped open when Tova arrives on Wednesday evening. It\\\\u2019s a bit earlier than usual, but Terry had sounded so wound up when he called. She\\\\u2019d left her supper plate unwashed and poured a hasty bowl of kibble for Cat before hurrying down to the aquarium. Is this about the open door? Her stomach lurches, remembering what happened when Cameron left the back door open and Marcellus tried to escape. But a moment later, Terry comes sauntering out with a broad smile and a wave. \\\\u201cWhat\\\\u2019s happening here?\\\\u201d she asks, approaching. \\\\u201cBig night. And I don\\\\u2019t mean only because it\\\\u2019s your second-to-last day.\\\\u201d Tova tilts her head. \\\\u201cWe\\\\u2019re getting a delivery,\\\\u201d Terry continues. He\\\\u2019s downright giddy. \\\\u201cNever thought it would happen before you left. And I called you because I thought you\\\\u2019d want to be here to meet it.\\\\u201d He laughs. \\\\u201cIt. Listen to me! Her. I thought you\\\\u2019d want to meet her.\\\\u201d Who on earth is \\\\u201cher\\\\u201d? Before Tova can ask, a truck rumbles into the parking lot. With a series of loud beeps, it backs up toward the doors. A gruff-looking man loads a wooden crate from a refrigerated enclosure onto a forklift. At first, the delivery person seems keen to deposit the large box right there, but Terry talks him into helping him transport it inside. Clutching her pocketbook, Tova follows the two men as they guide the huge crate through the open doors and around the curved hallway, which seems to be quite a project. She trails them into the pump room, where they deposit the crate. It sloshes audibly as they edge it onto the floor. In a flash, the delivery driver has vanished with the forklift. \\\\u201cKeep an eye on that for a minute, will you, Tova?\\\\u201d Terry says. \\\\u201cI need to go sign the paperwork.\\\\u201d He trots away after the deliveryman. Tova takes a closer look at the crate. On one side, in big, red, stenciled letters, it reads: THIS SIDE UP. On the other it says: LIVE OCTOPUS. \\\\u201cKeep an eye on it. What\\\\u2019s that supposed to mean?\\\\u201d Tova asks Marcellus as she peers through the narrow glass panel on the back of his tank. The LIVE OCTOPUS crate sits silent in the center of the room, so still that Tova wonders whether there\\\\u2019s anything alive inside at all. What is she meant to be keeping an eye on? Marcellus waves an arm, a noncommittal gesture. He doesn\\\\u2019t know, either. \\\\u201cI suppose we\\\\u2019ll see, won\\\\u2019t we?\\\\u201d Tova muses. \\\\u201cIn any event, it looks like you\\\\u2019re about to have a new neighbor.\\\\u201d A couple tanks down from Marcellus, there\\\\u2019s one that\\\\u2019s been emptied. Pacific nettle sea stars were there before. Where have they gone? The empty tank looks too clean, its water too clear. Tova pokes her head out of the pump room; Terry\\\\u2019s nowhere in sight. Quickly, she drags out the step stool and lifts the octopus tank\\\\u2019s lid. Marcellus pokes the tip of an arm through the surface of the water, and Tova lowers her hand. He curls his arm around her wrist in a gesture that\\\\u2019s well beyond familiar now, and there\\\\u2019s something almost instinctive about it, like the way a newborn baby will clutch at its mother\\\\u2019s finger. But Marcellus isn\\\\u2019t a baby. As octopuses go, he\\\\u2019s an old man. And now his replacement has arrived. Footsteps echo from the hallway, and Tova yanks her hand from the water, climbs down, and tucks the stool under the tank. She\\\\u2019s drying her arm on the hem of her shirt when Terry strides back in, holding a hammer. \\\\u201cWhat do you think? Shall we open her up?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYour new octopus,\\\\u201d Tova says, confirming. \\\\u201cYes! A bit ahead of schedule, actually. But she\\\\u2019s a rescue, rehabbed by a group up in Alaska after she got trapped in a crab pot and tore herself up trying to get out. I couldn\\\\u2019t say no.\\\\u201d Terry cracks open one edge of the crate with the tail end of the hammer. Tova folds her arms. \\\\u201cAhead of schedule?\\\\u201d Terry sighs. \\\\u201cMarcellus is . . . well, Tova, I\\\\u2019m sure you\\\\u2019ve noticed, but he\\\\u2019s very old for a giant Pacific octopus.\\\\u201d He heaves up the crate\\\\u2019s lid, grunting. \\\\u201cFeisty old man, though, isn\\\\u2019t he? Determined to outrun his life span. But Dr. Santiago and I aren\\\\u2019t sure how much longer he has left. He was in such bad shape this morning, he might only have weeks or days left.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI see,\\\\u201d Tova says. She glances over at Marcellus\\\\u2019s tank, but he must be tucked away in his den, because he\\\\u2019s nowhere to be seen now. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s amazing how long he\\\\u2019s lived.\\\\u201d Terry shoots Tova a curious look. \\\\u201cDid you know Marcellus was a rescue, too?\\\\u201d Tova lifts a brow, surprised. \\\\u201cI did not know that.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHe was in rough shape when we brought him in. Missing half an arm, his body all chewed up. Didn\\\\u2019t think he\\\\u2019d make it through the year. And here we are, four years later . . .\\\\u201d Terry smiles and shakes his head. \\\\u201cHe\\\\u2019s been a good boy. Except when he\\\\u2019s roaming around the building at night.\\\\u201d Tova\\\\u2019s pulse quickens. After all this time . . . now she\\\\u2019ll be scolded for enabling. For throwing out that horrible clamp. At the look on her face, Terry says, \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s okay, Tova. At the end of the day, I\\\\u2019m not sure any sort of security measure would\\\\u2019ve worked.\\\\u201d He shakes his head again. \\\\u201cThe new one will have better manners. I hope.\\\\u201d Inside the wooden crate is a steel barrel, its top fine mesh. Something sloshes and slaps inside. \\\\u201cWell, let\\\\u2019s take a look, shall we? I wish we could call her something, but I promised naming rights to Addie, and she stayed up half the night last night brainstorming and making lists.\\\\u201d At the mention of his daughter, Terry grins. Tova knows Addie was four when she named Marcellus, so now she\\\\u2019s eight, and still reveling in the joy of naming an octopus, which is rather sweet. \\\\u201cShe\\\\u2019ll come up with something wonderful, I have no doubt,\\\\u201d Tova says. The barrel\\\\u2019s lid pops off easily, and Tova can\\\\u2019t help but chuckle. Marcellus would\\\\u2019ve never endured a journey down the coast in such a flimsy enclosure. He\\\\u2019d have slipped out somewhere off the coast of British Columbia. \\\\u201cThere she is,\\\\u201d Terry says softly. Tova peers in. The octopus is huddled in the bottom of the barrel, which makes sense because there\\\\u2019s nowhere to hide in there. Tova is surprised at the creature\\\\u2019s salmon-pink color, so different from Marcellus and his rusty orange. \\\\u201cAre you going to move her to the tank now?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNot tonight. I need to wait for Dr. Santiago. She\\\\u2019s coming first thing tomorrow morning.\\\\u201d Tova watches the new octopus trail a tentative tentacle out from the clump she\\\\u2019s balled herself up in, then yank it back after a second. \\\\u201cYou think she\\\\u2019ll enjoy her new home?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI honestly don\\\\u2019t know, Tova.\\\\u201d Her eyebrows raise, taken aback by his candor. She\\\\u2019d only been making conversation, after all. \\\\u201cDon\\\\u2019t get me wrong, we try our best,\\\\u201d Terry continues. \\\\u201cBut look at Marcellus. We saved his life when we took him in, but he\\\\u2019s never been happy to be trapped in a tank.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHe\\\\u2019s rather bored,\\\\u201d Tova agrees. Terry laughs. \\\\u201cLife inside the Sowell Bay Aquarium never did satisfy him.\\\\u201d Tova leans on a nearby chair, easing the ache in her back, and tilts her head at the crate. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ll mop around it, then?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou don\\\\u2019t have to clean back here, Tova. You know that.\\\\u201d Terry carefully replaces the lid on the crate. \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t mind. It\\\\u2019s something to do.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, Cameron will help you; he should be here soon. He said he might be a little late tonight.\\\\u201d Terry looks at his watch. With one final pat on the lid of the crate, he leaves, muttering to himself about water temperature and acidic balance. Tova is left alone in the pump room with two octopuses and a strange sense that something is wrong. \\\\u201cWell,\\\\u201d she mutters to herself, picking up her pocketbook. \\\\u201cI suppose I\\\\u2019d better start on the floors.\\\\u201d On her way to the supply closet, she peers out the front door, expecting to see Cameron\\\\u2019s junky old camper parked next to her hatchback. But there\\\\u2019s no camper. AN HOUR LATER, Tova hovers in Terry\\\\u2019s office doorway, her fingers turning over her key card. He\\\\u2019s here late. She\\\\u2019s glad she caught him. \\\\u201cShall I leave this on your desk after we\\\\u2019re finished tomorrow?\\\\u201d she says, holding up the card. \\\\u201cSure, sounds good.\\\\u201d Terry drums his fingers on his desk. He still seems to be vibrating with excitement. \\\\u201cI just got off the phone with Dr. Santiago. She\\\\u2019s coming tomorrow to take a look at our new addition. She thinks we might leave her in the barrel a bit longer.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI see,\\\\u201d Tova says, trying to pump up the flatness in her voice. How can she explain to Terry that she doesn\\\\u2019t particularly care about this new octopus? That as far as she\\\\u2019s concerned, there will never be another Marcellus? Terry continues, \\\\u201cSounds like we might move her directly into Marcellus\\\\u2019s old space when . . . well, when it\\\\u2019s available.\\\\u201d Tova swallows. \\\\u201cSo, Cameron never showed up tonight?\\\\u201d Terry stands and begins to gather his things, shuffling papers on his messy desk. \\\\u201cNo,\\\\u201d Tova says hesitantly. \\\\u201cStrange. I hope he\\\\u2019s okay.\\\\u201d Terry zips up his computer bag. \\\\u201cAnd sorry you had to clean the whole place by yourself.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t mind at all.\\\\u201d Tova smiles. \\\\u201cI will always fondly remember cleaning this place.\\\\u201d Terry shakes his head. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re truly unique, Tova. And you\\\\u2019ll be missed around here.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThat\\\\u2019s very kind. I\\\\u2019ll miss all of you, as well.\\\\u201d He\\\\u2019s on his way around the hallway when Tova calls after him, \\\\u201cTerry? One more thing. Thank you.\\\\u201d Terry tilts his head. \\\\u201cFor what?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cFor giving me this job.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI didn\\\\u2019t exactly have much choice,\\\\u201d Terry says. \\\\u201cWhat do you mean?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhen I hired you. I didn\\\\u2019t have much choice. I knew you wouldn\\\\u2019t take no for an answer.\\\\u201d He grins. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re a very strong woman, Tova. Do you know that?\\\\u201d Tova studies the gleaming tile. Her sneaker leaves a fleeting print as she shuffles her feet. \\\\u201cYes, well. It\\\\u2019s good to stay busy.\\\\u201d Terry gives her a look. \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t mean strong only because you can wield a mop like no one I\\\\u2019ve ever met. Although that is true.\\\\u201d He grins again, more tenderly this time. \\\\u201cYou know, when I was a kid back in Jamaica, my great-gramma used to say she was \\\\u2018old but not cold.\\\\u2019 She lived to her late nineties. To her last days, she was in the kitchen, baking raisin buns for us kids. She liked to keep busy, too.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSounds like she was quite a woman.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAs you are.\\\\u201d Terry clasps Tova\\\\u2019s small shoulder with his large hand. \\\\u201cIf you ever change your mind, Tova, know that there is always a place for you here at Sowell Bay Aquarium.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI appreciate that.\\\\u201d Terry treads carefully over the freshly mopped floors as he walks out. \\\\n High and Dry When the front door clicks open, Tova has just finished putting the cart back in the supply closet. Has Terry forgotten something and come back to retrieve it? But it\\\\u2019s Cameron she meets in the hallway. He\\\\u2019s barreling toward the break room, eyebrows furrowed in angst. He stops short when he sees her, and the thunder on his face recedes for a moment as he registers surprise. He says, \\\\u201cI didn\\\\u2019t think you\\\\u2019d still be here.\\\\u201d Tova plants her hands on her hips. \\\\u201cWhere have you been?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cDoes it matter?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYes, it matters. This is your job, and you were supposed to be here hours ago.\\\\u201d Tova purses her lips. \\\\u201cThat\\\\u2019s more than \\\\u2018a little late.\\\\u2019 And you might know you missed a rather big night around here. There\\\\u2019s a new octopus.\\\\u201d Cameron doesn\\\\u2019t respond. Something about the boy reminds Tova of a coiled spring. The stiffness in his shoulders, the stompy manner in which he\\\\u2019s walking, the way he won\\\\u2019t look at her. She lays a hand on his shoulder. \\\\u201cAre you all right? Did something happen?\\\\u201d He shrugs off her touch and starts pacing. \\\\u201cDid something happen? Let\\\\u2019s see. Ethan\\\\u2019s a nosy asshole who has zero ability to mind his own business and also has zero faith in me. So much for that friendship. My only other friends? Back in Modesto? They just had a baby, and the band is over. Speaking of Modesto, did I mention my shitty mom? Who abandoned me? That\\\\u2019s been a real bummer for, like, my whole life. My aunt tried to be a mom, and she tried her best, but she shouldn\\\\u2019t have to keep parenting me. I thought I had a girlfriend here, but she\\\\u2019s totally ghosting me. I guess she\\\\u2019s pissed that I bailed on our date, even though I went there in person to tell her I couldn\\\\u2019t make it because something came up that was only, like, the most important meeting of my pathetic life. Or so I thought.\\\\u201d He stops, rakes in another breath. \\\\u201cAlso, my luggage? From my flight up here, two months ago? Is apparently taking an extended vacation in Italy. Not that I even need it anymore.\\\\u201d Tova realizes she has flattened herself against the tank behind her, as if all those words had been a strong wind. She straightens and pats her hair, like it might have been blown out of place, too. She\\\\u2019s not really following, but she nods as if she is. \\\\u201cAnd that\\\\u2019s not even the best part.\\\\u201d Cameron digs in his pocket and pulls out a chunky ring. A man\\\\u2019s class ring, it seems, although Tova only catches a glimpse of it, sitting on the boy\\\\u2019s palm, before it\\\\u2019s swallowed up in the angry fist clenched around it. He\\\\u2019s pacing again. Bitterness like static electricity infuses his voice as he continues, \\\\u201cThe best part is that all of this was totally and completely pointless. It wasn\\\\u2019t even him.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWho wasn\\\\u2019t who, dear?\\\\u201d Tova lays a hand on his shoulder, but again he flinches away. \\\\u201cHe wasn\\\\u2019t my dad. The reason I came to Sowell Bay. The guy I spent all that time tracking down. He was just some old friend of my mom\\\\u2019s. It isn\\\\u2019t even his ring.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThen whose is it?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cGuess I\\\\u2019ll never know.\\\\u201d Tova finds herself nearly speechless. Finally, she simply says, \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m so sorry, Cameron.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cMe too.\\\\u201d He swallows. \\\\u201cI mean, because all of this was such a waste of time.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s okay to be upset when you\\\\u2019ve lost someone,\\\\u201d Tova says quietly. Cameron mutters something Tova can\\\\u2019t quite hear, then stomps off toward the front entrance. She follows, keeping up as best she can. Is he really leaving? To her surprise, instead of out the front door, he heads into the pump room. She watches, astonished, as he navigates around the LIVE OCTOPUS crate, still sitting there in the middle of the room, and yanks off the lid to the wolf eels enclosure and drops the class ring in. It floats silently to the bottom of the tank and vanishes in a cloud of sand. \\\\u201cEels. This belongs with you,\\\\u201d he mutters bitterly. Tova stares at the tank. What on earth? One of the wolf eels returns her gaze, its needle teeth gleaming in the blue light. She clears her throat. \\\\u201cWould you like to sit and have a cup of coffee, dear? Obviously, I\\\\u2019m finished with tonight\\\\u2019s work, but we could talk through what needs to happen tomorrow. My last day. Make sure there\\\\u2019s a smooth transition.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cCoffee?\\\\u201d Cameron says this like it\\\\u2019s a foreign word. For a moment, he looks drained, like a wind sock fallen flat. He gives his head a quick shake, and just like that the storm is raging again. \\\\u201cNah. I just stopped by to grab my hoodie from the break room.\\\\u201d He stalks out of the pump room, and Tova trails him. \\\\u201cBut what about tomorrow?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThere\\\\u2019s no tomorrow,\\\\u201d he says over his shoulder. \\\\u201cTerry never offered me the job. Why would I stay? How incompetent do I have to be to get passed over for a job emptying trash bins and mopping floors? I mean . . . no offense.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh, I\\\\u2019m sure that\\\\u2019s a misunderstanding. Terry has been quite distracted; the new octopus\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m done with misunderstandings.\\\\u201d He ducks into the break room and emerges a moment later with his sweatshirt tucked under his arm. \\\\u201cAnyway, I\\\\u2019m out of here.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat do you mean?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHeaded back to California.\\\\u201d Cameron avoids meeting her eyes directly. A sad, sardonic smile spreads over his face. \\\\u201cRoad-trip time.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re leaving now?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYep.\\\\u201d Cameron\\\\u2019s tone is clipped. \\\\u201cWould\\\\u2019ve already been gone, but being the idiot I am, I left most of my shit inside Ethan\\\\u2019s house earlier today. Laundry. Even my guitar. Came back to get it.\\\\u201d He holds up the sweatshirt. \\\\u201cFigured I might as well grab this, too.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re leaving, and you haven\\\\u2019t told Terry?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHe\\\\u2019ll figure it out.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAnd what do you think will happen when you fail to show up tomorrow?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHe\\\\u2019ll fire me?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAnd who will prepare food for so many of our . . . friends?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNot my problem. It\\\\u2019s not exactly rocket science.\\\\u201d Tova gives him a stony stare. \\\\u201cThis is not the way a person should end employment.\\\\u201d Cameron shrugs. \\\\u201cHow would I know? I\\\\u2019ve never had a chance to quit a job. I always get canned. It\\\\u2019s kind of my thing.\\\\u201d He stomps into Terry\\\\u2019s office. She follows, and watches as he plucks a piece of paper from the printer tray and scribbles a note, which he folds and deposits on Terry\\\\u2019s desk. \\\\u201cThere. Is that better?\\\\u201d She picks the note up and hands it back to him. \\\\u201cLeaving your boss high and dry without proper notice . . . you\\\\u2019re better than that.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNo, I\\\\u2019m not.\\\\u201d His voice cracks. He tosses the paper onto the desk. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m really not.\\\\u201d \\\\n Day 1,361 of My Captiv\\\\u2014Oh, Let Us Cut the Shit, Shall We? We Have a Ring to Retrieve. HUMANS SPARE NO JUDGMENT WHEN IT COMES TO wolf eels. If I had a clam for every time I heard someone call them hideous or ugly or monstrous, I would be a very plump octopus indeed. These assessments are not wrong. Objectively speaking, wolf eels are grotesque. Theirs is one of few enclosures I have never entered or explored, but that has nothing to do with their unfortunate looks. It happened long ago, before I was captured and imprisoned. I was young, naive, and looking for a place to crash, as you humans might put it, in the open sea. The rocky den beckoned; it would have been a perfect home for me. I did not realize it was already occupied. With my vast intelligence, I ought to have used more caution. As soon as I peered through the gap in the rocks, it struck. The wolf eel\\\\u2019s needle teeth and fleshy maw are not only ugly, but quite strong. I paid for my mistake three times. First, I paid with my pride. Second, with one of my arms. The arm started to grow back the next day, but by then, it was too late. Third, with my freedom. Had my own poor judgment not brought about such injuries, perhaps I would have evaded my so-called rescue. With immense patience, I wait for Tova to leave. Unscrewing the pump housing has become more difficult lately, but with effort, I remove it. By the time I have worked myself halfway through the little gap, I am already feeling The Consequences, as they come on ever more quickly these days. I do not have much time left. I speak to the wolf eels in soft platitudes as I enter their enclosure. The large male glares at me, his garish head hovering in the mouth of their den; after a moment, his female mate joins him. You are both looking lovely today, I say, hugging the glass on the opposite side of the tank. The creatures blink. My organ heart pounds. I have no intention of lingering here, I promise as I sink toward the bottom. Their tank bottom is made of sand, whereas mine is coarser gravel, and I am surprised at how soft it feels as I dredge through it, searching. The two pair watches, having emerged a bit more from their den now, their jutted jaws opening and closing robotically, as always. Their thin dorsal fins ripple like ribbons, but they do not approach. I sweep the sand at the base of the plant, and finally the suckers at the tip of my arm brush something cold and heavy. I snatch the chunky ring and curl it in the thick, muscular part of my arm, where I know it will be secure. I glance at the wolf eels, who are still watching my every move. I hope you do not mind my taking this. Even the short journey back to my tank saps my strength. I am weakening by the day. Still carrying the heavy ring, I slip into my den and rest, as I will need stamina for my next trip. The last one. \\\\n A Goddamn Genius The serpentine belt, Cameron discovers, is aptly named. The thing winds around under the hood of the camper like a very long snake. The dry air smells like dust and burnt-up brake pads, and the morning sun is relentless. Every few seconds, with a loud whoosh, a burst of wind smacks him in the side of the head as another semitruck hurls down the freeway, like a parade of oversized beetles, mocking him with their menacing grilles as he stands on the shoulder in front of the camper\\\\u2019s popped hood. With one hand, he yanks on the snapped belt. In the other, he holds the new one from the glove box. \\\\u201cWhat in the hell,\\\\u201d he mutters to himself, staring at the vehicle\\\\u2019s innards. He recognizes the major parts. Engine block, radiator, battery, dipstick. Thingy that holds the blue stuff that cleans the windshield. The new belt was sitting there the whole time, right there in the glove box. Why didn\\\\u2019t he have it replaced? That squealing noise. It was never going to go away on its own. It certainly did not go away during the last twelve hours of driving. Well, that\\\\u2019s not exactly true. The squealing did disappear . . . along with the power steering, on this barren stretch of interstate outside Redding, a hundred-something miles south of the Oregon-California border. Is there anything Cameron can\\\\u2019t fuck up? His attempt to flounce after a humiliating failure is, itself, a humiliating failure. How very meta. \\\\u201cOkay, I can do this.\\\\u201d He blows out a breath, then squints again at the video, propping the phone on the bumper. There\\\\u2019s no other option. If he keeps driving, it won\\\\u2019t be long before the engine overheats and shits the bed. Well, that\\\\u2019s not exactly how the video described it, but . . . it\\\\u2019s not good. Besides, putting in the new belt can\\\\u2019t be that hard, and he, Cameron Cassmore, is a goddamn genius. It\\\\u2019s time he started acting like one. \\\\n The Eel Ring On Thursday afternoon, Tova\\\\u2019s last day of work, Janice Kim and Barb Vanderhoof materialize on her porch with a rectangular box. \\\\u201cCome in, won\\\\u2019t you?\\\\u201d Tova says. \\\\u201cI apologize for the state of the house. All the packing is just . . .\\\\u201d She sweeps an arm around the clutter. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ll put on coffee.\\\\u201d That\\\\u2019s one thing that hasn\\\\u2019t been packed yet: the percolator. It will be the last thing to go. She takes the box from Janice, assuming it\\\\u2019s some sort of casserole, but it\\\\u2019s far too light. She sets it on the kitchen counter and flips open the lid, revealing a small sheet cake shaped like a fish. Congratulations on Your Retirement, the icing reads. \\\\u201cYou shouldn\\\\u2019t have!\\\\u201d Tova laughs. \\\\u201cBut it\\\\u2019s accurate. I\\\\u2019m actually retiring.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAt long last,\\\\u201d Janice says, producing a parcel of paper plates and disposable napkins. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m sure you\\\\u2019ll talk them into hiring you to dust baseboards at Charter Village,\\\\u201d Barb adds, lowering herself into a chair at the kitchen table. \\\\u201cWell, I\\\\u2019m not ruling it out,\\\\u201d Tova says, smiling. The percolator hisses as the coffee brews, and Tova stoops down to run her hand along Cat\\\\u2019s back as the animal strolls into the kitchen. Janice regards Cat skeptically. \\\\u201cWhat\\\\u2019s happening with that fella?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, he can\\\\u2019t come with me,\\\\u201d Tova says. \\\\u201cI suppose he\\\\u2019ll go back to living outside full-time, unless one of you is in the market for a pet?\\\\u201d Janice holds her hands up. \\\\u201cPeter\\\\u2019s allergic. Plus, Rolo is terrified of cats.\\\\u201d Cat leaps up onto Barb\\\\u2019s lap, landing on light paws, and purrs loudly as he stretches upward and rams his furry head into her chin. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m a dog person,\\\\u201d Barb says. She scratches behind Cat\\\\u2019s ears. \\\\u201cMy, you\\\\u2019re soft, though, aren\\\\u2019t you? Did I tell you all about the cat Andie\\\\u2019s kids found last year? Lives in their bedrooms now, sleeps with them under the sheets and blankets. I told Andie she needed to make sure the thing was treated for fleas, because you never know what animals bring in from outside, do you? Anyway, then she said\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cLook Barb, he\\\\u2019s totally into you.\\\\u201d Janice giggles. Cat is licking the back of Barb\\\\u2019s hand now, as if he\\\\u2019s grooming her, still purring like a buzz saw. \\\\u201cI already treated him for fleas, of course,\\\\u201d Tova says pointedly. Barb looks from Janice to Tova. \\\\u201cBut I\\\\u2019m a dog person!\\\\u201d Tova laughs. \\\\u201cPeople can change, Barbara.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cEven old folks like us,\\\\u201d Janice adds. \\\\u201cOh, all right. I\\\\u2019ll think about it,\\\\u201d Barb mumbles, but she\\\\u2019s rubbing Cat on his gray belly now. His eyes are closed in bliss. Tova pours everyone coffee. \\\\u201cHave you both had supper? I could heat something up . . .\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh, you don\\\\u2019t need to do that.\\\\u201d Janice waves her off. \\\\u201cNot with everything else you\\\\u2019ve got going on here.\\\\u201d A saucy smile curls Tova\\\\u2019s lips. \\\\u201cLet\\\\u2019s have cake for supper.\\\\u201d TOVA CLEANS ALONE on her last shift at the aquarium. Her last time mopping the circular hallway. A final swipe of each pane of glass. As she finishes up, she takes extra care to scrub one last time under the sea lion statue\\\\u2019s tail. Who knows when it will be attended to again? Funny how when she started this job, having only sea creatures for company was the thing she liked most about it. It was something to do, a way to keep busy while keeping to herself, no need to get her hands in anyone else\\\\u2019s business. But now, cleaning alone seems oddly wrong. Cameron should be here, without a doubt. The surety of this sentiment surprises her. But he\\\\u2019s probably in California by now. After finishing, she makes one last trip down the dim hallway. To the bluegills, she says, \\\\u201cGoodbye, dears.\\\\u201d The Japanese crabs are next. \\\\u201cFarewell, my lovelies.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cTake care,\\\\u201d she says to the sharp-nosed sculpin. \\\\u201cSo long, friends,\\\\u201d to the wolf eels. Next door, Marcellus\\\\u2019s enclosure seems calm and still. Tova leans in and scrutinizes the rocky den, looking for any sign of him, but there\\\\u2019s nothing. She hasn\\\\u2019t seen him all night. She goes back into the pump room, but can\\\\u2019t see him from the rear, nor from the top looking down, either. She puts the stool back and hovers over the barrel, where through the screen she can see the new lady octopus still curled, compact, on the bottom, surrounded by a scattering of mussel shells. \\\\u201cDid you see anything? Is he gone?\\\\u201d She jams a hand over her mouth. \\\\u201cDid he\\\\u2014\\\\u201d A choking sob steals the word from her. The new octopus curls up tighter. Tova returns to the hallway and places a hand on the cool glass front of Marcellus\\\\u2019s tank. No point in saying goodbye to rocks and water. The single tear that leaks from her eye rolls down her wrinkled cheek and falls from her chin before landing on the freshly mopped floor. TERRY\\\\u2019S DESK IS a disaster when Tova goes in to leave her key card there, as she had promised to do. With a defeated shrug, she leaves the plastic card on top of the mess. Her sneakers squeak on the floor as she crosses the lobby. She\\\\u2019ll throw the sneakers out when she\\\\u2019s finished tonight. They\\\\u2019re battered from years of cleaning here; not even the secondhand shop would want them. Short of the door, she stops in her tracks. There\\\\u2019s a crumpled brown object on the ground, right in front of the door, as if blocking her way. She squints through the dim blue light. A paper bag? How could she have walked right past it on her way in? A tentacle flickers. \\\\u201cMarcellus!\\\\u201d Tova gasps, rushing over and dropping to the hard tile floor beside him. Her back pops loudly, but she hardly notices. The old octopus is pale, and even his brilliant eye seems diminished, like a marble that\\\\u2019s gone cloudy. She places a gentle, searching hand on his mantle, the way one might touch a sick child\\\\u2019s forehead. His skin is sticky and dry. He reaches an arm up and winds it around her wrist, right over the silver-dollar scar, which has now faded to a ghostly ring. He blinks, giving her a weak squeeze. \\\\u201cWhat are you doing out here?\\\\u201d she says, softly scolding. \\\\u201cLet\\\\u2019s get you back into your tank.\\\\u201d She unwinds his tentacle from her wrist and stands, then tries to lift him, but her back strains, an ominous pain shooting through her lower spine. \\\\u201cStay here,\\\\u201d she commands, then hurries off to the supply closet as quickly as her body will carry her. A few minutes later, she returns, wheeling her yellow mop bucket. Inside, several gallons of water slosh, moved there from his tank with the old milk jug Tova keeps in the supply closet. Relief washes over her when he blinks. He hasn\\\\u2019t gone yet. She sops her cloth in the tank water and wrings it over him, wetting his skin. He heaves one of his strange human-esque sighs. This revives him enough to move, it seems. With effort, he lifts an arm. Tova pulls the bucket up right beside him, and she gives his bottom (or what she supposes might be the equivalent of his bottom) a little boost as he heaves himself up over the bucket\\\\u2019s plastic yellow rim and plops into the cold water inside. \\\\u201cWhat are you doing out here?\\\\u201d she asks again. Then she sees it. Something chunky and gold glimmers on the floor, right in the spot where Marcellus had lain crumpled. She crouches and picks it up. SOWELL BAY HIGH SCHOOL, CLASS OF 1989. She\\\\u2019d thought it looked like a class ring yesterday when Cameron mysteriously hurled it in with the wolf eels. How did Marcellus get it out of there? And why? And Sowell Bay, class of 1989? Is this Daphne Cassmore\\\\u2019s ring? But it\\\\u2019s a man\\\\u2019s ring. Cameron had believed it was his father\\\\u2019s . . . It sits on her palm, cold and heavy. Like a memory. Erik had one just like it. She was so proud, as all parents are, of what it symbolized. She assumed he had been wearing it on that night. A ring also lost to the sea. She turns the ring over, squinting at the letters engraved on the underside. Her heart starts to beat in her eardrums. She wipes the ring on the hem of her blouse and reads it again. It cannot be. It is. EELS. Erik Ernest Lindgren Sullivan. \\\\n The Very Low Tide The revelatory bits swimming around in her mind crash into one another, begging to be linked together. There was a girl. Erik . . . and the girl. Erik fathered a child. A child that grew up, away, unknown. She can\\\\u2019t believe she never saw it before in so many of Cameron\\\\u2019s mannerisms. In that heart-shaped dimple on his left cheek, the one she always admired, although she could never put her finger on why. \\\\u201cYou knew, didn\\\\u2019t you?\\\\u201d she says to Marcellus in the bucket. \\\\u201cOf course you did.\\\\u201d She leans down and touches his mantle again. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re so much more intelligent than we humans give you credit for.\\\\u201d Marcellus lays the tip of one of his arms across the back of her hand. Tova crumples to the ground again, this time propping her elbows on the rim of the bucket. Once the hot, fast tears start spilling, she\\\\u2019s powerless to stop them. Droplets pelt the surface as her thin shoulders heave, falling faster with each monstrous sob. No one is here. No one is looking. Throwing caution away, she allows the grief to course through her. Finally, the tears slow to a trickle, punctuated by hiccups. Her eyeballs feel hot and dry. How long does she remain in this state of unmitigated grief? It might be minutes or an hour. When she lifts her head at last, her stooped shoulders ache. \\\\u201cWhat am I going to do without you?\\\\u201d she says, dodging a hiccup, and he blinks his kaleidoscope eye, which is now more rheumy than ever. He might only have weeks or days left, Terry said. She sits up, swiping away the tears with the back of her hand. \\\\u201cFor that matter, what am I going to do with you?\\\\u201d She stands and squares her shoulders, shrugging the soreness out of her back. \\\\u201cCome on, my friend. Let\\\\u2019s take you home.\\\\u201d IF THERE WERE any straggling fishermen or late-sunset walkers on the Sowell Bay waterfront that night, they would\\\\u2019ve been treated to quite a sight: a seventy-year-old woman, ninety pounds at best, pulling a sixty-pound giant Pacific octopus in a yellow bucket down the boardwalk toward the jetty. Tonight, though, the only witnesses are seagulls, and they scatter from the trash bin, lobbing indignant squawks at Tova as she wheels Marcellus by. It is not a fast journey by any means, but Marcellus trails an arm out each side of the bucket like he\\\\u2019s riding in a car with the windows down. Tova laughs. \\\\u201cThe breeze feels nice, doesn\\\\u2019t it?\\\\u201d The tide is way out. Tova can barely hear the waves lapping on the rocks, it\\\\u2019s so far out, feels like it must be a mile away from the waterfront path. Moonlight gleams on a hundred shallow pools, scattered like huge silver coins across the naked beach. \\\\u201cThis is going to get bumpy,\\\\u201d Tova warns. The jetty, an engineered break wall of rocks and boulders, reaches across the bare beach and eventually out to the water, curving gracefully like a ballerina\\\\u2019s arm. On a summer afternoon, it will teem with beachcombers and adventurous picnickers, those looking for the most picturesque spot to sit and lick ice cream cones. Now, it\\\\u2019s empty but for a lone seagull posted at the very tip. Wheeling the bucket across the jetty\\\\u2019s flat but pebbly top is no small task. Later, her back will certainly hurt. But finally, Tova and Marcellus make it nearly to the end, where the low-tide water is at least a couple feet deep below the rocks. From the tip of the jetty an arm\\\\u2019s length away, the lone seagull glares at them, then lets out an atrociously loud squawk. \\\\u201cOh, quiet, you,\\\\u201d Tova scolds, and the bird flaps off. She lowers to sit on a rock slick with salt water. Trailing a hand in the bucket, she clears her throat before commencing the short speech she\\\\u2019s been rehearsing in her head during their journey down to the beach. \\\\u201cI must thank you,\\\\u201d she begins, and he clasps her arm one last time. \\\\u201cTerry mentioned you were rescued. I suspect you might rather not have been saved, but I am glad you were.\\\\u201d She blinks back tears. Not again! \\\\u201cYou led me to him. My grandson.\\\\u201d Her voice falters on these last two words, but a warmth seeps through her at the same time. Two words she never thought she\\\\u2019d say. If only Will had been here to meet him. And if only Modesto wasn\\\\u2019t a thousand-plus miles away. \\\\u201cYou stole his driver\\\\u2019s license! You naughty thing.\\\\u201d She chuckles, and his arm squeezes her hand as she shakes her head. \\\\u201cYou tried to tell me, and I wasn\\\\u2019t listening.\\\\u201d Somewhere high in the night sky, an airplane cruises by, the faraway roar of its engine echoing over the calm bay. \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s unfair that you spent your life in a tank. And I promise, Marcellus, I\\\\u2019ll do everything I can to make sure your replacement is the most pampered, intellectually stimulated octopus . . .\\\\u201d The weight of her own words hits her. She\\\\u2019s not going to Charter Village. She can\\\\u2019t. After a deep breath, she goes on. \\\\u201cWe must say goodbye, friend. But I\\\\u2019m glad Terry saved you, because you saved me.\\\\u201d Slowly, she tips the bucket. It\\\\u2019s about three feet down to the water. For a moment that seems extended in time, before gravity catches up, Marcellus\\\\u2019s arm remains wrapped around her hand as his strange otherworldly body hangs in midair, his eye fixed to hers. Just as she\\\\u2019s about to be pulled down with him, he releases, and lands with a heavy splash in the night-black water. \\\\n Every Last Thing My sweet boy,\\\\u201d Tova says, gazing out from her usual bench on the pier next to the aquarium. Under the silver moon, the water sparkles back. The events of the last two hours hardly seem real, to say nothing of the events of the last two months. Marcellus is gone. Cameron, her grandson, is gone. As of tomorrow, her house will be good as gone. But she won\\\\u2019t be moving up to Charter Village. Tova will not be gone. What will she do? She hasn\\\\u2019t a clue, so she sits on her bench, staring at the water for some length of time that\\\\u2019s amorphous, immune to ordinary laws of the world, like a huge octopus reshaping its body to slip through a tiny crack. At some point, she checks her watch. It must be very late by now. Quarter to midnight. It\\\\u2019s almost a new day. Her first day as a grandmother. Erik didn\\\\u2019t know he\\\\u2019d fathered a child. How could he end his own life with a child on the way? He couldn\\\\u2019t have. And he didn\\\\u2019t. She clings to this theory, her thin fingers gripping tight on the bench. It had to have been an accident. Drunk kids. Impaired judgment. He would\\\\u2019ve been a wonderful father. Yes, he was only eighteen, but look at Mary Ann\\\\u2019s granddaughter, Tatum. She did just fine. Erik would\\\\u2019ve loved Cameron to pieces. Everything\\\\u2014every last thing\\\\u2014could have been so different. \\\\u201cExcuse me? Hello?\\\\u201d A woman\\\\u2019s voice rings out across the pier, startling Tova from her reverie. Who else could be out here at this hour? Someone wearing short athletic shorts and a bright pink sweatshirt is running up the pier at an urgent clip. Tova realizes it\\\\u2019s the young woman who owns the paddle shop just down the boardwalk, next to the realtor\\\\u2019s office. \\\\u201cHello.\\\\u201d Tova wipes her eyes and adjusts her glasses, then rises from the bench. \\\\u201cAre you all right, dear? It\\\\u2019s quite late to be out for a jog.\\\\u201d The young woman slows to a trot as she nears the bench, out of breath. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re Tova.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI am.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m Avery,\\\\u201d she says, panting. \\\\u201cAnd I wasn\\\\u2019t out for a jog. I was finishing up paperwork at my shop down the road and I saw lights on, figured someone was at the aquarium.\\\\u201d There\\\\u2019s a quiet desperation in her eyes that Tova recognizes all too well. The look of someone trying to hold it together. She follows Avery\\\\u2019s gaze back to the aquarium building, where the lights are indeed still on. The yellow mop bucket is back in the closet. Tova had planned to turn everything off and lock up on her way out, whenever that may end up being. Avery swallows. \\\\u201cAnyway, I was thinking it might be . . .\\\\u201d \\\\u201cCameron?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYes.\\\\u201d A look of relief washes over her face. \\\\u201cIs he here?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m afraid not.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cDo you know where he is? I\\\\u2019ve been calling him all afternoon, but he\\\\u2019s not answering his phone.\\\\u201d Tova shakes her head. \\\\u201cHe left. Went back to California.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat?\\\\u201d Avery\\\\u2019s mouth drops open. \\\\u201cWhy?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cThat\\\\u2019s a rather complicated question.\\\\u201d Tova\\\\u2019s tone is measured. She sinks back into her spot on the bench, and the girl sits at the other end, tucking her bare legs underneath her. Tova goes on, \\\\u201cI suppose, in his mind, too many misunderstandings.\\\\u201d Avery\\\\u2019s eyebrows knit together. \\\\u201cMisunderstandings?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHis words exactly.\\\\u201d She raises a brow at the young woman. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m quite certain he thinks you are . . . oh, how did he put it . . . ghosting him?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat?\\\\u201d Avery leaps up. \\\\u201cHe stood me up! And then sent me some message saying he needed to talk. When has that ever meant anything good?\\\\u201d She leans on the railing. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m the one who should be pissed. I only came over here because I was worried about him.\\\\u201d Tova recalls Cameron\\\\u2019s diatribe in the hallway at the aquarium, and is poised to tell Avery about it, but hesitates. She ought not to meddle in his business. But, well . . . he\\\\u2019s family, and isn\\\\u2019t this what families do? The thought almost makes her laugh. Perhaps against her better judgment, she finally says, \\\\u201cI believe he did try to let you know he couldn\\\\u2019t make it.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNo, he didn\\\\u2019t.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHe said he stopped at your shop.\\\\u201d Tova shakes her head. \\\\u201cAnother misunderstanding, I suppose.\\\\u201d Avery leans on the railing and drops her forehead onto her curled fist. She mutters, \\\\u201cMarco.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI beg your pardon?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cMy son. He\\\\u2019s fifteen. He was in charge of the store while I ran to the bank. I asked if Cameron had called or come by, and he said no. I should\\\\u2019ve known something was up when I caught his cocky smirk out of the corner of my eye.\\\\u201d Avery gives the railing a frustrated smack. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m trying my hardest, I swear to God, but my kid\\\\u2019s such a little turd sometimes.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAll kids are terrible sometimes.\\\\u201d Tova rises and stands next to the young woman. \\\\u201cMaybe your son was trying to protect you.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t need protecting.\\\\u201d Avery huffs. \\\\u201cAnd I should\\\\u2019ve seen through it.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cDon\\\\u2019t blame yourself, dear. Being a parent is not for the faint of heart.\\\\u201d After a long pause, Avery says, \\\\u201cSo Cameron left for California because of me.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, it wasn\\\\u2019t just that. There was the big misunderstanding. The one about his so-called father.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh, crap. That meeting . . . It didn\\\\u2019t go how he thought it would.\\\\u201d She groans again. \\\\u201cI should\\\\u2019ve called him yesterday. The shop got busy, and I was mad . . .\\\\u201d She pulls a cell phone from the pocket of her shorts. \\\\u201cI need to talk to him.\\\\u201d Tova watches as Avery dials. The call goes straight to voice mail. \\\\u201cHe\\\\u2019s really gone, isn\\\\u2019t he,\\\\u201d Avery says softly. \\\\u201cMaybe so.\\\\u201d The two women watch the moon-bathed water in silence for what feels like a long while. Finally, Avery says, \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s peaceful here. I never come down the pier anymore.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s my favorite place,\\\\u201d Tova says quietly. Avery drops her gaze to the black water far below. \\\\u201cI talked someone down from this ledge, once. Stopped her from . . . you know.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cGood heavens.\\\\u201d In a half-choked voice, Avery goes on. \\\\u201cIt was a woman. Right here, in this spot. A few years ago. I was out paddling super early in the morning, and she was sitting on the railing. Talking to someone. Herself, I guess. She looked rough. Like she was on something.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI see,\\\\u201d Tova says, her voice faint. \\\\u201cShe kept talking about a horrible night. An accident. A boom.\\\\u201d A boom. Tova gives a little nod, finding herself unable to speak, and the girl continues. \\\\u201cI always assumed she must have been in combat or something. Trauma from an explosion, maybe.\\\\u201d A boom. Tova closes her eyes, imagining how easily it could happen. Something knocks the bow off course, and a gust of wind catches the newly slackened sail just the wrong way at just the wrong moment. The boom swings wildly. Smacks his head. Knocks him overboard. An accident. It could\\\\u2019ve happened that way, or any number of ways. Captain of the crew team, an accomplished sailor, but there was that stolen beer. There was a girl. \\\\u201cSometimes I wonder what ever became of her,\\\\u201d Avery says. \\\\u201cWhether she\\\\u2019s still alive. Whether my saving her mattered.\\\\u201d With a stiff inhale, Tova looks Avery in the eye. \\\\u201cIt mattered. I\\\\u2019m glad you saved her,\\\\u201d she says. And she means it. \\\\n Expensive Roadkill At mile marker 682, Cameron stops obsessing over the engine temperature gauge. It worked. He really fixed it. The camper is not going to blow up in the middle of the interstate. At exit 747, he lets out a juvenile chuckle. The town of Weed! He puts his flashers on and pulls to the shoulder, intending to snap a pic of the sign to send to Brad. Because Weed, California, is never not funny. But his phone\\\\u2019s not in its usual place in the cup holder. Weird. Did he leave it in the back of the camper, maybe? He keeps driving. At mile marker 780, he realizes why he couldn\\\\u2019t find his phone. He left it on the front bumper, right where it was when he was changing the belt. He can practically see it sitting there. Which means, by now, it\\\\u2019s an expensive piece of roadkill. He lets out a wild laugh. He hasn\\\\u2019t slept in almost thirty hours. At a truck stop somewhere in the Rogue River Valley, he makes the smart decision to park and take a six-hour nap. When he wakes, he splashes his face with cold water in the public restroom and buys a black coffee, to go, from the diner. On his way out, he tosses a mostly full pack of cigarettes in the trash. At or around exits 119, 142, and 238, he dwells on his idiotic resignation note. At exit 295, he starts composing an apology in his head. At a bridge crossing the Columbia River, he reenters Washington state. Northbound, of course\\\\u2014he\\\\u2019s been going north. Going back to do things the right way. \\\\n The Dala Horse For the last time, Tova boils water for coffee on her stove. Its lacquered top gleams, avocado green against the black coils, polished last night. Spotless. Could it possibly matter? It will almost certainly be ripped out, replaced by one of those sleek new ranges. No one wants a decades-old appliance, even if it works perfectly well. Tova had been approved for accelerated check-in at Charter Village, something she\\\\u2019d lobbied after for weeks. Her premier suite would be available next week. She left them a telephone message first thing this morning, at whatever absurdly early hour she awoke, assuming she slept at all last night. The whole thing is a blur. Charter Village has yet to call back, but most likely it\\\\u2019s simply because their office isn\\\\u2019t open yet. It\\\\u2019s only just past seven. Regardless, Tova has no intention of going. She\\\\u2019s had a busy morning. Dusted all of the baseboards. Wiped down the windows. Polished the hardware on the cabinets, scrubbed every last doorknob. She should be exhausted, but she\\\\u2019s never felt more energized in her life. Without curtains or furniture, every sound she makes echoes against the naked walls and floors, and even the hiss of her spray bottle seems too loud. But keeping busy is good. Cleaning is always good. It\\\\u2019s something to do. Where will she go? She\\\\u2019s supposed to be out of the house by noon. The movers who took most of the furniture yesterday have already been notified that there will be a change of destination. Thankfully, someone answers their phone at the crack of dawn. But what will that destination be? A storage unit, perhaps? As for herself and her personal effects, Janice and Barbara both have spare bedrooms. At a decent hour, she\\\\u2019ll call Janice first. Perhaps she might alternate between them until other arrangements can be made. Her floral-print canvas suitcase, the same one she took on her honeymoon with Will, is packed and ready to go. The thought of spending the night in a bed that isn\\\\u2019t her own thrills and terrifies her, in turn. When something rustles on the front porch, she startles. She sets her coffee cup down. It can\\\\u2019t be Cat. Barbara sent a photo last night of Cat. He\\\\u2019s doing all right, although at first Barb had tried to keep him exclusively indoors and this agitated him greatly. So he comes and goes as he pleases. Tova still isn\\\\u2019t sure how to respond to photos she receives on her cell phone, but seeing Cat\\\\u2019s whiskered face, his yellow eyes with their hallmark look of mild disdain, had made her smile. Then the doorbell rings. When she opens the front door, she can\\\\u2019t believe her eyes. Cameron\\\\u2019s eyebrows are creased anxiously, like Erik\\\\u2019s when he was nervous about a school exam. For a quick moment, something nostalgic catches in Tova\\\\u2019s throat, thinking of how many times she wished Erik would somehow appear on her doorstep like this. Tears spring to her eyes. \\\\u201cHi,\\\\u201d Cameron says, shuffling his feet. All Tova can manage is \\\\u201cHello, dear.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cUm, sorry I was such a jerk the other night. You were right. I shouldn\\\\u2019t have left.\\\\u201d Cameron jams his hands in his pockets. \\\\u201cAnd sorry to show up here so early. I would have called, but . . . well, bizarre story there.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s quite all right.\\\\u201d Tova holds the door open with an arm that feels like it belongs to someone else. Like she\\\\u2019s out of her own body. \\\\u201cI realize you owe me absolutely nothing.\\\\u201d Cameron\\\\u2019s voice is like a live wire. Buzzy. \\\\u201cBut can you tell me what time Terry normally gets in? I need to talk to him. In person.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cAround ten, if I\\\\u2019m not mistaken.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cTen. Okay.\\\\u201d Cameron lets out a long breath. \\\\u201cHow mad do you think he is at me right now?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNot mad at all, I\\\\u2019m quite sure.\\\\u201d Cameron gives her a confused look. Tova shuffles across the foyer to where her pocketbook hangs on the otherwise-empty set of pegs by the door and pulls a folded paper from the front pouch. A conspiratorial smile overtakes her face as she hands it to him. \\\\u201cMy note?\\\\u201d His jaw drops. \\\\u201cYou took it?\\\\u201d She inclines her head. \\\\u201cMind you, I shouldn\\\\u2019t have. But I did.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBut . . . why?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI suppose some part of me didn\\\\u2019t believe you when you insisted you were the type of person who would shirk a job.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cSo then . . . Terry doesn\\\\u2019t know I left?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI believe he is none the wiser.\\\\u201d Cameron\\\\u2019s cheeks flush. \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t know how to thank you. And I don\\\\u2019t know why you\\\\u2019d have such faith in me. Not like I\\\\u2019ve earned it.\\\\u201d There\\\\u2019s something else she must show him, of course. Something far more important. And where have her manners gone? \\\\u201cPlease, come all the way in.\\\\u201d She ushers him through the foyer. \\\\u201cAnd I\\\\u2019d invite you to sit, but . . .\\\\u201d She sweeps an arm around the empty den. \\\\u201cWow. This is a nice house.\\\\u201d Tova smiles. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m glad that you think so.\\\\u201d Regret stabs at her. The boy\\\\u2019s great-grandfather built this house, and this is the only time he\\\\u2019ll ever set foot in it. \\\\u201cWait here a moment. I have another thing to give you,\\\\u201d she continues, before hustling off to the bedroom and her suitcase. A minute later, she returns. She holds it out to him, then drops it in his upturned palm. He turns it over, and confusion knits his brow. That engraving, the one that flummoxed him. He thought it meant eels, like the sea creature. Why on earth would anyone put that on a class ring? At the thought of this, Tova suppresses a smile. Even the most brilliant minds are mistaken sometimes. \\\\u201cHis full name,\\\\u201d she says, \\\\u201cwas Erik Ernest Lindgren Sullivan.\\\\u201d Cameron\\\\u2019s lips part, soundless. Tova waits. She can almost see the wheels turning in his head. Erik was just like that, how it showed on his face when the gears were grinding in his brain, which they always were. There is so much about Cameron and Erik that is alike, but not everything. Not his eyes. Those must be his mother\\\\u2019s. Daphne\\\\u2019s. They\\\\u2019re lovely eyes. Tova has never been much of a hugger, but when Cameron\\\\u2019s face starts to break apart, she finds herself pulled to him like a magnet. His arms wrap around her neck, squeezing her against his chest. For what seems like a very long time, she rests her cheek against his sternum, which is warm. She can\\\\u2019t help but notice that his T-shirt appears to be stained and smells oddly like motor oil. Perhaps that\\\\u2019s intentional? Never again will Tova make assumptions about a T-shirt. He stands back and says with a dumbfounded grin, \\\\u201cI have a grandmother.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWell, how about that?\\\\u201d She laughs, and it\\\\u2019s as if a valve inside her has been released. \\\\u201cI have a grandson.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYup, looks like you do.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhat happened to California?\\\\u201d He shrugs. \\\\u201cChanged my mind. You were right about not quitting. I\\\\u2019m better than that.\\\\u201d Surveying the den, he gives an appreciative nod. \\\\u201cThis really is a cool house. The architecture . . .\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYour great-grandfather built it.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cNo shit?\\\\u201d A look of astonishment crosses Cameron\\\\u2019s face. He walks over to the fireplace mantel, the one that once held the row of frames featuring his father, and touches it tenderly, almost hesitantly, the way one might lay a hand on a sleeping animal\\\\u2019s flank. Tova follows. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019ve been fortunate to enjoy it for sixty-plus years.\\\\u201d She lifts her wrist, inspecting her watch. \\\\u201cAnd three and a half more hours.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHoly crap. That\\\\u2019s right. You sold it.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s okay. I need to let it go. Too many ghosts.\\\\u201d Tova isn\\\\u2019t sure she believes the words, but she\\\\u2019s becoming accustomed to them, at least. Cameron studies his sneakers. \\\\u201cI guess I\\\\u2019m glad I caught you here, then. Before you moved to that retirement home.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh,\\\\u201d Tova says, swatting the air as if to clear away his words. \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m not going there.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re not?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHeavens, no.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWhere are you going, then?\\\\u201d An unfettered laugh escapes from deep in Tova\\\\u2019s chest. \\\\u201cYou know what? I don\\\\u2019t know. To Barbara\\\\u2019s. Or Janice\\\\u2019s. For a while. Until I figure out what comes next.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cGood plan,\\\\u201d says Cameron. \\\\u201cI mean, that\\\\u2019s coming from a guy living in a camper.\\\\u201d He grins, and the heart-shaped dimple on his cheek indents, and for a moment he looks every part the impish grandson. Tova glances down, checking to make sure her slippers are still contacting the floor, because it feels like she\\\\u2019s aloft, floating, unfurling toward the ceiling with unwitting elegance, like Marcellus in his old tank. Her heart is full of helium, lifting her skyward. She chuckles. \\\\u201cI suppose we\\\\u2019re both homeless, then.\\\\u201d She gestures to the hallway. \\\\u201cWould you like to see where your father grew up?\\\\u201d ERIK\\\\u2019S OLD BEDROOM had been the most difficult to clean. Three decades, it sat empty. She swept the room regularly over the years, and even changed the linens on his bed occasionally, but after the men from the secondhand shop hauled the furniture away, she found herself balking at the ancient dust bunnies gathered in the corners. As if one of them might contain some fragment of him, still. The hardwood floor is discolored where Erik\\\\u2019s throw rug once sat. Sun slants through the naked window. A sea breeze gently sways the branches of an old shore pine outside, and the light casts a wraithlike shadow on the opposite wall. Once, on a full-moon night when young Erik had forgotten to shut the curtains, he caught sight of that shadow and bolted across the hallway into Tova and Will\\\\u2019s room, dove under their covers, convinced he was being haunted. Tova held him until he slept, then continued to hold him all through the night. Cameron\\\\u2019s eyes rake over every inch of the room. Perhaps he\\\\u2019s trying to commit it to memory, to scan it like Janice Kim\\\\u2019s computer. Tova has begun to retreat from the room to give him a measure of privacy when he says, \\\\u201cI wish I\\\\u2019d met him.\\\\u201d She steps back in, placing a hand on his elbow. \\\\u201cI wish you had, too.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cHow did you, like, go on?\\\\u201d He looks down at her and swallows hard. \\\\u201cI mean, he was here one day and gone the next. How do you recover from something like that?\\\\u201d Tova hesitates. \\\\u201cYou don\\\\u2019t recover. Not all the way. But you do move on. You have to.\\\\u201d Cameron is gazing at the floor where Erik\\\\u2019s bed once was and biting his lip thoughtfully. Suddenly, he crosses the room and jabs at one of the floorboards with his sneaker toe. \\\\u201cWhat happened here?\\\\u201d Tova tilts her head. \\\\u201cWhat do you mean?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYour whole house is red oak floorboards. But this one piece is white ash.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI have no idea what you\\\\u2019re talking about.\\\\u201d Tova shuffles over and adjusts her glasses, scrutinizing the floorboard. There doesn\\\\u2019t seem to be anything remarkable about it. \\\\u201cSee, the grain lines are different. And the finish, it almost matches, but not quite.\\\\u201d He produces a cluster of keys from his pocket, kneels, and starts working a key chain that\\\\u2019s meant to open bottles into the crack between the floorboards. Moments later, to Tova\\\\u2019s shock, the board pops up, revealing an open space underneath. \\\\u201cI knew it!\\\\u201d Cameron squints into the cavity. \\\\u201cGood heavens. Who would do such a thing?\\\\u201d Cameron laughs. \\\\u201cAny teenage boy who ever lived?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cBut what would he need to hide?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cUh . . . well, my friend Brad used to steal his dad\\\\u2019s magazines, and\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh!\\\\u201d Tova flushes. \\\\u201cOh dear.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t think that\\\\u2019s what we\\\\u2019re dealing with here.\\\\u201d Cameron pulls out a small parcel. Its plastic wrapping crunches when he hands it to Tova, who drops it once she realizes what\\\\u2019s inside. Snack cakes. Or what were once snack cakes. They\\\\u2019re hard and gray as stones now. \\\\u201cWow, Creamzies. These are old-school,\\\\u201d Cameron says, picking the package up and studying it. \\\\u201cYou know, I saw a show on some science channel about them once. Urban legend says they\\\\u2019ll survive a nuclear holocaust, but it\\\\u2019s not actually true, see, because the diglycerides they use as stabilizers don\\\\u2019t\\\\u2014\\\\u201d \\\\u201cCameron,\\\\u201d Tova interrupts quietly. \\\\u201cThere\\\\u2019s something else in there.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIn here?\\\\u201d He holds up the petrified cakes, squinting. \\\\u201cNo, in there.\\\\u201d Her focus is fixed on the floorboard compartment. It\\\\u2019s one of Tova\\\\u2019s mother\\\\u2019s old embroidered tea towels, wrapped around something the size of a deck of cards. Cameron takes it out and hands it to Tova. Her fingers tremble as she unravels the towel. Inside is a painted wooden horse. \\\\u201cMy Dala Horse.\\\\u201d Her whisper comes out like gravel. She runs a finger down the figurine\\\\u2019s smooth wooded back. Every last splintered piece is glued back into place flawlessly. Even the paint is touched up. The sixth horse. Erik had fixed it. Cameron leans over, peering at the artifact. \\\\u201cWhat\\\\u2019s a Dala Horse?\\\\u201d Tova clicks her tongue. The boy is full to the brim with random knowledge about floorboard grains and snack cake stabilizers and Shakespeare, but how little he knows about his heritage. She holds the Dala Horse out to him. He takes it, and she watches him study the delicate carved curves. After a long moment, he looks up. \\\\u201cHow did you get the class ring back?\\\\u201d She smiles. \\\\u201cMarcellus.\\\\u201d \\\\n Day 1 of My Freedom AT FIRST, I SINK LIKE A COLD BUNDLE OF FLESH. MY arms no longer function. I am a chunk of jetsam flung into the sea on a comatose journey toward the seafloor. Then, with a twitch, my limbs awaken, and I am alive again. I do not say this to give you false hope. My death is imminent. But I am not dead yet. I have time enough to bask in the vastness of the sea. A day or two, perhaps, to revel in darkness. Dark, like the bottom of the seafloor. Darkness suits me. After my release, I swam away from the rocks with haste. Soon, there was a drop-off. Down, down, down. Into the depths, the bowels of the sea, where no light reaches. Where once, as a juvenile, I found a key. Where I return now, to lie with the long-disintegrated bones of a beloved son. I will be honest: this is not how I expected our time together to end. For nearly four years I was held captive and not a day passed when I did not ruminate on my own death, certain I would expire within the four glass walls of that tank. I never imagined I would know the freedom of the sea again. How does it feel, you ask? It is comfortable. It is home. I am lucky. I am grateful. But what will become of my replacement? Soon, Terry will begin cleaning and remodeling my tank. He will make no attempt to conceal these activities from the viewing public; the sign he tapes on the glass will read UNDER CONSTRUCTION: NEW EXHIBIT COMING! I stopped at her barrel on my journey out. Climbed up the side to peek at her. She is young and badly injured. Terrified, naturally. But this new octopus will have a friend. One that I did not have until the very end. Tova will make sure she is happy, and I would trust Tova with my life. I did trust her with my life, more than once. Just as I trusted her with my death. Humans. For the most part, you are dull and blundering. But occasionally, you can be remarkably bright creatures. \\\\n After All One month later, when the renovations are complete, a moving truck with Texas plates lumbers through Sowell Bay. Tova doesn\\\\u2019t notice. She\\\\u2019s preparing for battle. \\\\u201cYou\\\\u2019re toast,\\\\u201d she calls, unfolding the game board and scrambling the letter tiles. Outside, a brisk fall wind slices across the water. A harbinger of winter, these whitecaps whipping over the water\\\\u2019s colorless surface, which blends seamlessly into the gray sky. \\\\u201cPlease. I\\\\u2019m about to own you.\\\\u201d Cameron emerges from the luxury kitchen in Tova\\\\u2019s new condominium with a tray of sliced cheddar and round crackers. Tova frowns. She\\\\u2019s been lobbying hard for him to try lutefisk with hardtack, which is what a good Swede would eat. But the crackers were on special at Shop-Way, Cameron had explained. Buy-one-get-one. She can\\\\u2019t be upset about that. Tova knows Terry would\\\\u2019ve been thrilled to keep Cameron on at the aquarium, but the hours and pay just weren\\\\u2019t enough, although Cameron stayed on to train his replacement. Now, Cameron works excruciating, long days for a contractor over at one of those custom homes in Adam Wright and Sandy Hewitt\\\\u2019s neighborhood. He\\\\u2019s talking about taking classes at the community college down in Elland come January, engineering prerequisites. He insists on paying his own way, in spite of Tova\\\\u2019s objections. She\\\\u2019ll work on that. \\\\u201cYou go first,\\\\u201d Tova says, arranging her tiles. \\\\u201cNo, go ahead. Age before beauty,\\\\u201d Cameron teases, studying his own tray while fiddling absently with his father\\\\u2019s class ring, which he wears on his right hand. She mock-scowls. \\\\u201cI have fifty years of daily crossword puzzles stored in here.\\\\u201d She taps her temple. Cameron grins. \\\\u201cI don\\\\u2019t know shit, really, but somehow I\\\\u2019m good at these things.\\\\u201d Shit, really. That\\\\u2019s the sort of language now woven into the tapestry of her life, and she wouldn\\\\u2019t have it any other way. She opens with \\\\u201cJUKEBOX\\\\u201d (seventy-seven points, an incredibly lucky draw). On this, Cameron plays \\\\u201cJAM\\\\u201d (thirty-nine points). \\\\u201cI\\\\u2019m glad you\\\\u2019re here,\\\\u201d she says quietly. \\\\u201cAre you kidding? Where else would I be?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cWith your aunt Jeanne.\\\\u201d Cameron rolls his eyes. \\\\u201cShe\\\\u2019s living her best life, trust me. Did I tell you about Wally Perkins and his\\\\u2014\\\\u201d Tova holds up a hand. \\\\u201cYes. You did.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cIt\\\\u2019s amazing up here. Aunt Jeanne will for sure come visit. She\\\\u2019s already talking about trying to track down her sister over in Eastern Washington. To which I say, good luck\\\\u2014who knows what mess she\\\\u2019ll dig up there.\\\\u201d Cameron face tenses, but it\\\\u2019s short-lived. \\\\u201cAnd Elizabeth is already planning to bring the baby up in the spring. Well, Brad, too, of course, but I guess he\\\\u2019s freaking out about taking baby Henry on a plane\\\\u2014germs or something. Elizabeth will talk him into it, though, and Uncle Cam will put the pressure on if needed.\\\\u201d He laughs. Tova laughs, too. A baby in the family. Although she hasn\\\\u2019t met Elizabeth or Brad yet, somehow Cameron has convinced her that she\\\\u2019s their grandmother, too. She gazes out the window. It is amazing here. Hurricane-grade glass from floor to vaulted ceiling run the entire length of the living room, interrupted only by French doors, which lead to a balcony set on sturdy pilings. When the tide is high, Tova likes to have coffee out there, listening to the water slap the deck boards underneath. WHEN THANKSGIVING COMES, Tova and Cameron set a table for three. It would\\\\u2019ve been four, but Avery backed out, promising to swing by later with pie. Apparently, she decided to keep the paddle shop open on Thanksgiving Day but didn\\\\u2019t want to make any of her employees work. People starting their holiday shopping on a holiday, how ridiculous. But Avery always says that the shop is doing so well this year, on the upswing, like Sowell Bay itself. She probably didn\\\\u2019t want to pass up a day of decent sales. Cameron said he understood, and anyway, he sees her all the time. Marco might come with Avery today. Cameron\\\\u2019s voice had dropped, serious, when he explained this to Tova. He bought a green Nerf football on his way home from work the other day. Marco might want to toss it around on the beach, he said. Maybe. If he doesn\\\\u2019t, no hard feelings. Ethan claims his seat, arriving half an hour early for turkey supper. Sometimes it seems he spends every free minute in Tova\\\\u2019s condo. But, in truth, Tova doesn\\\\u2019t mind. Mostly, he sits in her living room, in the recliner next to the little curio shelf where she displays her Dala Horses. Ethan loves listening to records on Will\\\\u2019s old turntable, an apparatus he treats with almost religious reverence. Although Tova never desired an education on rock music, she\\\\u2019s receiving one. It\\\\u2019s nice to have Ethan around. When Ethan shrugs off his jacket, Cameron yelps. \\\\u201cWhere\\\\u2019d you get that?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cOh, this?\\\\u201d Ethan\\\\u2019s eyes twinkle. He runs a hand over his belly, which strains against a yellow T-shirt that\\\\u2019s clearly a bit small. Garish lettering across the chest reads MOTH SAUSAGE. Good heavens. What is a Moth Sausage? Cameron\\\\u2019s eyes are still saucers. \\\\u201cThat\\\\u2019s mine! I haven\\\\u2019t seen it since\\\\u2014holy shit, did my luggage finally come?\\\\u201d \\\\u201cYou mean that ruddy green duffel is your luggage?\\\\u201d Ethan winks. \\\\u201cThought it was just my lucky day when I found it on my porch this morning.\\\\u201d \\\\u201cFinally.\\\\u201d Cameron laughs. \\\\u201cThat bag has been all over the world. I\\\\u2019ll bet it\\\\u2019s got some stories to tell.\\\\u201d After the turkey and gravy have been eaten, Ethan, Cameron, and Tova leave a scandalous mountain of dirty dishes in the sink and bundle up for a walk down the waterfront, where Puget Sound shivers like a great gray ghost beyond the pier. The old ticket booth with its diagonal-cracked window sits alone under a blanket of clouds. In front of the aquarium, they stop, all three admiring the new installation. A bronze statue with eight arms, a heavy-looking mantle. Round, inscrutable eyes on either side of its head. The aquarium had balked at her hefty donation, but Tova insisted. Too much cash sitting unused in a bank account. Now, she passes the new statue three times a week, when she arrives for her volunteer position, passing out pamphlets and standing in front of the giant Pacific octopus tank, helping visitors understand the creature. Pippa the Grippa is still quite shy, spending most of her public-facing time as a pink blob suctioned to the glass in the corner of the tank. Living up to her name, Tova supposes. But that\\\\u2019s okay. When it\\\\u2019s slow, Tova talks to her while surreptitiously wiping away stray fingerprints on the glass. She can\\\\u2019t help herself. A couple of tanks down, the sea cucumber population now remains stable. To Terry\\\\u2019s great relief, Pippa appears disinclined to roam the hallways, collecting lost artifacts. Secretly, this makes Tova happy, too. Marcellus was, in fact, an exceptional octopus. They continue along the waterfront, past the jetty. Marcellus\\\\u2019s jetty. The tide is high, clinging snug to the seawall like someone drawing blanket to chin on a cold winter night. Gentle waves play peekaboo with the mussel-crusted boulders that line the wall. Cameron and Ethan have been yapping about football for the last half hour, so Tova tunes them out. If they kept going up the shore, they\\\\u2019d eventually pass underneath her old house, perched up on the hillside. Sometimes Tova walks there at dusk, and often when she passes the house, the big attic window glows golden through the trees. Once, she was certain she saw a string of paper dolls fixed to the window. She has returned to the house only one time. A woman with a Texas accent called her cell phone, having obtained the number from Ethan. It seemed the woman had come through the checkout lane at the Shop-Way with a stack of cat food cans, and mentioned that there was a gray cat that wouldn\\\\u2019t leave her yard. Now, Cat loves hunting rock crabs on the beach under Tova\\\\u2019s deck when the tide is out. He prefers being outdoors, as if he doesn\\\\u2019t quite trust that this new place is home, and Tova can\\\\u2019t blame him. It\\\\u2019s a difficult adjustment. But as the weather gets colder, he seems increasingly resigned to spending more time inside the condo, curled on the davenport or sitting in front of the window, yellow eyes fixed on the seagulls that wander the skies. When they circle back to the pier, Tova slips away and stands at the railing, alone. To the somber bay that took them both, a cherished son and an exceptional octopus, she whispers inscrutably: \\\\u201cI miss you. Both of you.\\\\u201d She taps her heart. Then she turns and heads back to the others. They ought to get back to the condo. Avery is coming for pie. And there\\\\u2019s a Scrabble game to win, after all. \\\\n Acknowledgments My grandmother collected owls. The china cabinet on the red shag carpet in her dining room was crammed full of them. As a kid, I spent a lot of time on that carpet. I lived next door and had free rein to dart across our shared backyard and duck through the screen door into their kitchen, where there were always homemade cookies and no one stopped me from skating across the linoleum in my socks. This was the 1980s, and these owls were old-school, not like the twee pastel birds that now decorate baby showers. My grandmother\\\\u2019s figurine owls had heavy eyes and sharply pointed beaks. Like real owls, they conveyed little emotion. I never knew why she loved owls, but year after year, until she passed away, I wrapped gift boxes with owl-themed brooches and tea towels. In some ways, Tova is modeled after my Grandma Anna. Tova\\\\u2019s life events are fiction, but she and my Grandma Anna are both stoic Swedes. Unruffled. Endlessly kind, yet emotionally inscrutable. Apt to sink talons into a solitary branch and remain there, owl-like. As a descendant of this culture, I sometimes struggle to communicate touchy-feely things. But I\\\\u2019m going to try, because I am grateful to so many people for the fact that this book is in your hands. First, an ocean-sized thanks to Helen Atsma, my amazing editor at Ecco, whose editorial vision for this story hit the mark from our very first meeting. Helen, you have a knack for pruning out the weak parts and letting the narrative shine, and I am so grateful for your guidance. Also, huge thanks to Miriam Parker, Sonya Cheuse, TJ Calhoun, Vivian Rowe, Rachel Sargent, Meghan Deans, and everyone else at Ecco for your brilliance, kindness, and patience. Similarly, to Emma Herdman and her team at Bloomsbury UK, your enthusiasm has been so inspiring, and I feel so fortunate to be working with such an accomplished team across the pond. A tidal wave of thanks to my agent, Kristin Nelson, who changed my life with an email in the fall of 2020. Thank you, Kristin, for having a sense of humor when, during our first video call, my four-year-old son repeatedly appeared onscreen to complain about wanting a juice box. I still can\\\\u2019t believe I\\\\u2019m lucky enough to count myself as one of your clients. My gratitude extends to everyone at Nelson Literary Agency, with special thanks to Maria Heater, who reviewed my query letter, realized there was an octopus narrator, and wrote in the margin: \\\\u201cThis is either brilliant or bananas.\\\\u201d I am thrilled to have Jenny Meyer and Heidi Gall at Meyer Literary Agency on the team, handling international deals. They\\\\u2019ve done a spectacular job bringing this story to a global audience. When I wrote the first draft of this book\\\\u2019s opening scene, years ago, it was in response to a workshop prompt about writing from an unexpected point of view. I had recently watched a YouTube video in which a captive octopus picked open a locked box with a treat inside, so that\\\\u2019s where my mind went, and I invented this curmudgeonly octopus who was bored and exasperated with humans. I didn\\\\u2019t know anything about octopuses back then, and I\\\\u2019m still no expert. But I\\\\u2019m certain they\\\\u2019re the most fascinating creatures on our planet. To that octopus in the video, thank you. To octopuses generally, thank you for occasionally allowing us a glimpse into your world. I\\\\u2019m especially grateful to Sy Montgomery for writing the wonderful nonfiction book The Soul of an Octopus, which follows her engrossing (and heartwarming, and frequently hilarious) journey as she shadows octopus keepers at the New England Aquarium. Also, thank you to the Alaska Sealife Center and the Point Defiance Zoo and Aquarium for fielding my cephalopod questions, and more importantly, for the conservation and rescue work you do. I will forever be grateful to Linda Clopton, who taught the workshop I mentioned above, and who mentored me through my earliest attempts at creative writing. She championed this story from the very first words laid on the page. That workshop also introduced me to a handful of writers who form the basis of my main critique group, even today. To Deena Short, Jenny Ling, Brenda Lowder, Jill Cobb, and Terra Weiss, your feedback is invaluable, and seeing you all on Zoom regularly has always been a bright spot, especially during the pandemic. To Terra especially, who puts up with my daily texts, and who always manages to carve out hours from her own hectic life for our weekly critique call. Those check-ins kept me on track to complete this book. Terra, every page of this story has your mark on it. I would never have finished it without your endless patience for talking through plot knots and your gentle reminders to keep my characters in line. To my online writing group, Write Around the Block, and in particular the query support crew, thank you for your feedback and support: Becky Grenfell, Trey Dowell, Alex Otto, Haley Hwang, Jeremy Mitchell, Kim Hart, Mark Kramarzewski, Rachael Clarke, Janna Miller, Sean Fallon, and Lydia Collins. To Kirsten Baltz, thank you for lending your marine biology expertise. To Jayne Hunter, Roni Schienvar, and Lin Morris, thank you for generally being there for me. To the writing workshop folks at College of DuPage, and instructor Mardelle Fortier, it was a pleasure workshopping parts of this book with you. To Grace Wynter for her thoughtful feedback on my early first chapters, and to Gwynne Jackson for helping me patch up plot holes. To my wonderful friends Gesina Pedersen and Diana Moroney, thank you for always listening and lifting me up when I needed it. Most of all, thank you to my family. To my mom, Meridith Ellis, for showing me how strong a person can be. She\\\\u2019s loving and caring and tough as hell. She can still probably crush me in a bench press or a timed mile, but I know she\\\\u2019ll always be there for me with a warm hug and a long talk over a glass of wine. To my dad, Dan Johnson, who taught me to read when I was in preschool. I owe my love of books to him. He has always been my biggest champion, and I am so grateful for him. To my wonderful kids, Annika and Axel, who are probably too young to remember much about that weird year when we were all stuck in the house during a global pandemic and Mommy decided, bafflingly, that this was the year to finish her novel. Thank you for playing together peacefully (most of the time) when I needed to throw on my headphones and work. Thank you for your silliness and your wild imaginations, which brought sweet moments of levity when life got heavy. Thank you to Netflix, along with screen time limits that went out the window in 2020. Thank you to snacks. So many snacks. Thank you to juice boxes! Finally, thank you to my husband, Drew, who has supported and encouraged me every single day on this journey to take my writing from hobby to career. He is my toughest beta reader, but in the best possible way, and is always willing to look over whatever bizarre thing I\\\\u2019ve written and offer insight. There is no one I\\\\u2019d rather be on this ride with. I love you. \\\\n About the Author Born and raised in the Pacific Northwest, SHELBY VAN PELT lives in the suburbs of Chicago with her family. This is her first novel. Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com. \\\\n \\\\n\\\"\\n}\",\"difficulty\":\"easy\",\"domain\":\"Single-Document QA\",\"length\":\"medium\",\"question\":\"Narrives: 1. ['Cameron discovers a class ring and a photo of his teenage mother with an unknown man while sifting through items from a box left by his aunt.']\\\\n2. ['Tova discovers the name of a girl, Daphne Cassmore, who was associated with her deceased son Erik, by looking through his old high school yearbook.']\\\\n3. [\\\\\\\"Cameron arrives at a basement cocktail lounge for a meeting with Mr. Brinks but is told by a girl with green hair that the place doesn't open until eight.\\\\\\\"]\\\\n4. ['Cameron discovers that the airline has lost his bag, which contained valuable jewelry he intended to pawn for money.']\\\\n\\\\nQuery: Considering the given book and narratives, Which order of the narratives in the following options is correct?\",\"sub_domain\":\"Event ordering\"}","display_format":"text","language":"","answer_status":"published","assets":[],"source_url":"https://huggingface.co/datasets/zai-org/LongBench-v2","history":"initial import","indexing_mode":"noindex","subproblems":[],"grids":[]}