“Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re all going to turn and look at him at exactly the same time. Ready?”
“Ready!”
“And don’t smile,” Finn instructed. “Three. Two. One.”
When all five girls turned to look at Joel, he visibly flinched. “Very funny!” he shouted back, then ducked into the car to hide his embarrassment.
The Van Houtens’ house was the only one on the entire three-mile stretch of road, and even then, it was difficult to see through the tightly packed stand of alder trees. As Rowan had alluded, a fish-shaped mailbox was the first thing to greet them as they pulled over beside the dirt drive.
“Remember,” Zadie whispered to her sister as they climbed out of the car, “we don’t know for sure this Myron guy was the one who ran Mom off the road.”
“I know,” Finn replied.
“Just… play it cool, okay? I don’t want to freak him out.”
“Did you see his kids?”
“You know what I mean,” Zadie said brusquely. “Let’s try to keep the conversation as grounded in reality as possible.” Then, after a beat, “Hisreality, not ours.”
It was more of a cabin than a house—cedar-shingled with clumps of moss growing on its roof, a crooked stone chimney, and a large stack of firewood on the front porch. It was the kind of home that Finn thought would make a great setting for a slasher movie or—when bundled in freshly fallen snow—a heartwarming family drama about a prodigal son returning home for Christmas.
The moment Finn’s foot hit the porch steps, it was as if she had been struck by a wave. She staggered backward and steadied herself. Zadie put a hand on her shoulder. “Whoa. You okay?”
“Yep. I’m fine,” she assured her sister, although her voice wavered slightly. She steeled herself and stepped back onto the porch. Once again, she was rocked by the same invisible force: thousands of memories moving as one sorrowful swarm—hard-faced doctors, thrumming machines, pastel gowns, and waiting rooms—but also, a man carrying a sick woman down a flight of stairs, laughter as her head is accidentally bumped against a doorframe, a firecracker of joy made more acute by despair. A love story in three acts: beginning, middle, end.
Somehow she made it all the way to the front door, but couldn’t bring herself to knock, scared that the moment she saw Myron’s face, she would be moved to tears. “You knock,” she said, stepping aside so her sister could do the honors.
Zadie looked at her questioningly, then rapped four times on the solid hardwood door. A few seconds later, from inside, came a muffled voice. “Did you girls forget your keys again?” The door was thrown open, and there stood a slightly disheveled man in his late forties. He had a five o’clock shadow and small, downturned eyes that gave him a somewhat solemn appearance. He didn’t look likethe kind of guy who would run someone off the road—intentionally or otherwise—and judging by the surprised look on his face, he clearly wasn’t accustomed to visitors, either. “Oh, sorry. I thought you were my kids.”
“No worries,” Zadie said politely. “Are you Myron?”
“I am,” he answered tentatively. “How can I help you?”
“I’m Zadie. This is my sister, Finn.”
Finn caught Myron’s eye. In her head, she heard a man crying. The sound was clearer than any echo she’d had before, as though the memory were only weeks or days old. It was the closest Finn had ever gotten to mind reading and it made her uncomfortable. She held his gaze for only a second before she looked away.
When Finn didn’t say a word, Zadie continued with introductions. “And this is our friend, Joel.”
Joel waved. “I like your mailbox.”
“Oh, thanks.” Myron smiled. “Do you fish?”
“It depends.”
“On…?”
“Whether eels are fish or not.”
Before Joel could elaborate, Zadie cut him off. “Sorry to bother you. This is going to sound strange, but we’re looking for someone we think you might know.”
“Well, it’s not a long list, so that should be easy.” He stepped aside, holding the door open for them. “Come on in.”
Zadie and Joel followed him inside, but Finn hung back. She could almost see the memories inside the house, long gossamer threads drifting through space like jellyfish tendrils. To enter, she would have to use all her willpower to resist them or risk going catatonic in this stranger’s home. She took a deep breath, imagined a protective glass bubble around her mind, and stepped over the threshold.
The inside of Myron’s home looked less like a Christmas movie set and more like what it actually was: a home. It had low plaster ceilings, wood-paneled walls, sofas draped in rumpled plaid slipcovers, and an oval cotton rug that had begun to unravel on one end.A potbelly stove squatted in the corner of the living room, with several damp items of girls’ clothing draped over its stovepipe. On the wall above hung a mounted largemouth bass—a real one, not the singing kind—along with family photos, some of which also prominently featured large fish.
“Sorry about the mess,” Myron said, making a show of picking up food wrappers that had been left on the dining table. “I try to keep it clean, but with three girls, it’s hard.”