We’re going to the fort first. Nolan has to tell me three times that Orman isn’t in the boathouse before I believe him. With Wally following dutifully at our heels, we make our way through a rain-soaked Lochbrook to the gate held open by rocks.

Nolan keeps his head down, his hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatshirt like he is trying to make himself smaller and smaller until he becomes invisible.

Lochbrookians and tourists wander in and around the tiny shops, brightly colored shopping bags and beach totes tucked under their arms. Kids in bathing suits and flip-flops sit on the curb outside an old-fashioned ice cream parlor, licking hot-pink ice cream droplets that slide down their cones. From the crest of the hill, I can see a group of boys shoving and wrestling like puppies on the peninsula that leads to the lighthouse. Adventurous adults bob in and out of the rough waves left over from yesterday’s storm.

“You okay?” I ask Nolan when he jerks his head to face me. A group of girls our age passes us on the narrow sidewalk.

“Fine,” he mumbles.

I don’t press him.

When we reach the private beach on which the fort sits, Nolan lets out a half groan, half yell and drags his hand down his face.

“I hate it,” he admits.

“Hate what?”

“Walking through town. I’m always worried a tourist will recognize me and send out their internet Bat-Signal and that will be the end of my privacy.”

“Wasn’t it worse in New York?” I ask.

“Much. That’s why I decided to come back here.” He gestures at the fort.

His keys jingle as he unlocks the door and stomps his feet to clear them of sand.

Our beanbags are exactly as we left them.

I take a seat, expecting Nolan to follow, but he goes to his writing desk. Wally happily bounds over to me and sits on my lap, his gargantuan furry body blocking my view of anything else. I can hear Nolan opening a drawer, the rustle of paper, the clattering of pens.

Wally is more than happy to leave my lap when Nolan sits back in his beanbag. Nolan is so fully concentrating on the spiral notebooks he’s brought over that he doesn’t even notice when Wally knocks the hat from his head. He flips through the pages of one and hands me a standard college-ruled red number and some plain black pens. I guess this answers the question of the expensive journal and pen collection.

“Can you draw?” Nolan asks.

“No,” I say. “I mean, stick figures and stuff.”

“Good enough,” he replies, businesslike. He pokes a finger at my spiral. “Draw stick figures of thirteen-year-old you and thirteen-year-old me.”

“What? But you’re a year older than me.”

Nolan rolls his eyes. “Fine. Draw twelve-year-old you and thirteen-year-old me.”

“But why?”