My eyes focus on the painted waves that crash fretfully at the bottom of the jagged hill the lighthouse sits upon. Somewhere, an entirely new pod of whales is born and dies before N. E. Endsley—author of beloved books and potential co-Jenna acknowledger—sighs again, and says, “Maybe.”

I straighten, surprised, and we look at each other for a long time, his eyes narrow and circumspect. If this looking could be personified, his blue would be the rough gray-blue of a terrible storm and mine would be the lighter blue of the ocean rising up to meet it.

I want to make concrete plans, pick a time and place and reality when we will meet tomorrow, but trying to pin N. E. Endsley to a plan would be fatal. Storms have no masters.

His stare is unrelenting. I wonder what worlds he sees behind my eyes.

I wonder if he knows that sometimes, in the quiet of my head, I imagine myself in the Orman forests. That I walk in the crushed-grass footprints of the girls, my own tread covering theirs completely, until their stories become my own. If he knows that, even though the books have stopped speaking to me, the world behind my eyes still looks very much like a living, breathing library.

Without a word he rises, his elbow accidentally bumping my knee. He is halfway down the hall, his muffled steps barely registering in the silence, when I find my voice.

“So, you’ll talk?” I ask as I find my own feet. “About Jenna? And,” I can’t resist asking, “maybe Orman?”

I haven’t left the room, but I hear him pause at the top of the stairs.

No answer. I can sense the storm gathering strength, so I amend.

“Okay,” I say. “No Orman. But … you’ll tell me what Jenna said?”

I’m in the hallway now and can just barely make out his silhouette on the stairs—his back straight, head bent as if scanning the floor for something he’s dropped, his left hand sprawled on the railing, fingers tapping a beat. He is a human computer calculating risk and reward. He hasn’t said anything, but he also hasn’t said no.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” I prod.

I’ve pushed too far. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t look my way as he glides down the staircase with familiar ease, even though I’m almost to the stairs myself.

I watch as he opens the front door to leave, can’t help but torture myself with what I suspect is the last time I will see N. E. Endsley in the flesh. I let my mind run circles around his meeting with Jenna, his books, the pictures on his phone. I’m so lost in my own head that I almost don’t hear his voice intermingled with the jingling bells of the front door.

“Maybe.”