He wrote to Astrid, posting the envelopes to both the address in Florida and the address in Rio. He telegrammed her ship, but no reply came. He imagined she was being watched like a hawk, and like him, she was quietly plotting and planning how to make this story turn around and read left-to-right again.

Then in late September, the telegram from Brazil came. Not for him, but for Marta.

Not with a plan, but with a punch.

“Astrid got married,” Marta said, the yellow slip of paper quivering in her fingers. “She married that fellow. Last weekend.”

“Jesus H,” Minor said softly.

Trudy started crying.

Emil put his hand on Kennet’s back, pressing down as if to hold Kennet to the earth.

Kennet felt his entire being cloud over. Like a storm gathering above Wolfe Island. He would not divide, and he had ten minutes to get away from his loved ones before the full power of his rage thundered down. He pushed back his chair and walked out of the house. Napkin still in hand, he hopped onto the Hildur and sailed out to Grennell Island. Tre-O was shut up tight for the season, but he knew how to get in without a key.

“Desenrascanco, darling,” he mumbled.

He broke a few things. Punched and kicked the walls. Bellowed at the ceiling before toppling face-down on the bare mattress and wallowing in his misery. He ate his heart out good and proper. Then there was nothing more for it. He went home and went back to work. Changed now. As his grandparents had been changed after Beatrice died, and his parents were altered by their stillborn daughter. Kennet looked in the mirror, expecting his face would have an obvious duality now, just like Minor. A subtle rearrangement in his features would prove Astrid abided within him, occupying half his soul.

He gazed hard at his reflection.

She wasn’t there.

The next letter came in December. Addressed to Marta from Liisa Virtanen. But it was Emil who handed it to Kennet and suggested they step outside.

“Is she dead?” Kennet said, his voice hollow inside his head.

Half of Emil’s mouth managed a smile. “No, son, she’s not dead.”

They went onto the porch. The day was brisk, but the southwest sunshine made a little warm splash on the one wicker chair left out for winter. Kennet sat and unfolded the letter.

“The first part is small talk,” Emil said. “Skip to the end.”