Kevin nodded. Bunty looked over the roof of the car out toward the gray ocean. Kevin did the same, and they stood a moment staring together on the drive. Static erupted on the car radio.

Oh, there’s another thing, nearly forgot.

Bunty leaned into the car, grabbed something off the dash, and raised himself again.

This is for one of your guests. I told the RCMP man I’d bring it here. Name’s on it.

Kevin thanked him and took the clear plastic bag.

You sure you don’t want to come in? he offered. Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes.

Can’t, Bunty said. I appreciate the offer.

He banged the roof of the car and lowered himself into the driver’s seat. There was a time, at a public meeting years before, when Bunty Phillips had used Kevin and Douglas as examples of the new people coming to ruin the island. But Kevin had the oddest urge right then to hug him.

He watched Bunty put the vehicle in gear and lift a finger in parting. Bunty Phillips. He couldn’t wait to tell Douglas they’d talked, that he seemed actually okay after all this time.

When the squad car was gone, Kevin stood in the driveway. The leaves had begun dropping from the pin oaks. Fog lay on the lawn. Kevin had almost forgotten about the plastic bag, and he looked down at it now in his hands. “Orfeo Raskolov” was written on a white label and “Trachis Inn” scribbled beneath it. Inside he could make out the rectangle of wood, but out of context, without the body of the instrument, it took Kevin a moment to realize what it was. The wood was the size of an index card, with two feet on the bottom and a hole in the center in the shape of a heart. He put the bag to his chest. What a gift, he thought, looking out over the lawn, to be handed such a thing: a bridge, a span, from Bunty (of all people) to pass on to the Bulgarian. Kevin stood a moment in the gray dawn. A shiver ran up his spine. He had good news for Mr. Liang—for everyone—and a piece of cello for the Bulgarian.

Down at the Quahog Cottage, Pars Mansoor covered Ana with a proper blanket from the bed and brewed coffee. He tiptoed out to the deck and stood in the chilled air. He didn’t want to wake Ana: she was sleeping so peacefully inside.

At the Cliff Cottage, Diana Olmstead sat on her deck as well—eyes half shut, reciting her sutra. She’d spent the night keeping vigil over Mr. Liang. He hadn’t slept at all. Only in the last two hours had he finally fallen asleep.