At first Maya’s arms remained at her sides, but it only took a second or two before she melted. Her chin dropped onto Trudy’s strong shoulder and her eyes closed. Violet swallowed hard over the lump in her throat. Finally Trudy pulled back and, with her hands still on Maya’s shoulders, gave her a nod of affirmation, or maybe approval. Whatever it was, tears sprang into Maya’s eyes.

A moment later, Violet and Trudy stood shoulder to shoulder in the doorway and watched Maya walk down the sidewalk away from the shop. She held her head high, proud, despite her solitude.

“I think this’ll be good.” Violet said it as much to herself as to Trudy.

Trudy opened her mouth and a noise escaped—not a word, exactly, or even part of one, but a sound nonetheless. Her eyes widened and she clamped her mouth shut.

“Trudy?” Violet stared at her sister, her own eyes moistening as tears pooled at the corners of Trudy’s eyes. “What is it? Can you try again?”

It had been happening lately, these small sounds and beginnings. Trudy hadn’t said a full word, nothing complete or even approaching it, but for her to be making a sound at all was groundbreaking.

Over the years Violet had tried to convince Trudy to see someone—a doctor, a counselor, someone who could help draw the words out or at least remove the stopper keeping them in. But Trudy always shook her head no, and Violet stopped trying to convince her a long time ago. But lately, with every sound of laughter or dissent, Violet wondered what was coming.

Trudy’s lips moved but no more sound emerged. Finally her shoulders dropped and her face slackened. Whatever it was had retreated once again.

Violet slipped her arm into the crook of Trudy’s elbow. “Come on, then. Let’s go home.”

* * *

The man on the phone had tried to give Frank directions to the house where the boat had washed up, but Frank told him it was unnecessary. He hadn’t been there in decades, but after studying the boat photos and remembering the night the neighbor called about a scream, he realized he knew exactly where to go.

When he pulled up in front of the house at 61 River Ash Road, he stood from the car, closed the door, and gazed up. The trees overhead—live oaks, river birches, black gums, and longleaf pines, just to name a few—were giants, their leaves creating a canopy that stretched as far as he could see. Long, ghostly curls of Spanish moss hung low from every limb and branch, trembling in the nonexistent breeze, and under the canopy, the thick shade was alive with birdsong.

Down the road a ways, a row of old trees—pecan, by the looks of them—was all that was left of the woods that used to be next to Jay’s house. Those foxes. Frank shrugged off a chill that crept down his arms, then he started up the front walk of the house. Paint peeled off the wood siding in thick chunks and some of the windows were broken. As he stared, a scrawny cat jumped through an opening and darted through the scrubby grass and across the street, yowling in irritation as it passed Frank.