"I've only ever seen bald eagles," he had said humbly, and when she'd turned the page, there was a picture of a golden eagle in flight, at about five hundred feet up, the photo shot from the window of a plane. He could see part of one strut.

"Is that a Super Cub?" he said.

Dina was impressed. "Yes."

"Is it yours?"

She nodded. "It's at the strip in Niniltna. How did you know it was a Cub?"

He looked back at the picture of the golden eagle. "My dad was a pilot."

"I know. I met him. He drove a Cessna, didn't he?"

"Yeah. A one seventy-two."

"I remember. Lycoming conversion."

"Yeah."

"Sweet little plane. What happened to it?"

"My mom sold it when my dad died."

The kitchen timer had dinged then and Ruthe had taken a sheet of cookies out of the oven, the best oatmeal cookies he'd ever eaten. She sent him home with a bagful. She was pretty, and as smart as Dina. He'd liked them both, and he was sorry there would be no more evenings spent at their cabin eating fresh-baked goodies out of the oven and looking at pictures of otters sliding down a snowbank into a creek.

The tea had steeped and melted the honey and he'd stirred all the lumps out of the cocoa. He added marsh-mallows to the cocoa and carried both mugs to the table, sitting down across from her. "How long did you know them?"

"Hmm? What?" She looked down and saw the mug. "Oh. Thanks." She curved her hands around it, warming her fingers, which felt suddenly cold.

"So how long did you know them?"

"Ruthe and Dina?" She stared down at the surface of the tea, a golden yellow. "All my life. They were friends of my grandmother."

He nodded, very serious, and wiped marshmallow from his mouth. "Emaa."

"Yes."

"And she's dead, too."

"Yes."

"Is the tea all right?"

"What? Oh." She sipped at the tea for form's sake. "Yes, it's fine. Thanks, Johnny."

"You're welcome."

She put up a hand to rub her forehead. "It's hard to believe. They seemed, I don't know, larger than life. Like they'd live forever."

"Like Dad," Johnny said, nodding.

She looked at him then. "What?"

"Like Dad," Johnny repeated. She didn't think he knew it when a tear slid down his cheek. "He was like, I don't know, God. I didn't think anything could hurt him. Well, except you."

He was only fourteen and he'd been orphaned by one parent and had orphaned himself from the second as a deliberate act. He was trying so hard to act grown-up, to take matters like divorce and separation and death in his stride, to be independent and autonomous and to move on and keep moving without looking back. Kate knew the feeling.

She didn't make the mistake of denying she'd ever hurt his father, and she didn't try to apologize. "I know. He was kind of. . . indestructible, I guess."