Some time later, the others wandered back to the bus. The Brooklyn family came aboard, blowing noses. They smelled of the cold. The Italians. The Hasidic boy. The Chinese couple (the woman had been found down by the rocks). The driver shut the door, and Mrs. McIntyre did a head count, mouthing numbers beneath her breath, and soon they started back to the inn.

Pars sat beside Ana again, worrying a small purple stone in his hand. The sky had turned threatening; how quickly the weather changed along the coast. Blue lupines leaned along the roadsides, most already gone to seed. The Trachis Light swung into view.

Is it your husband? Pars suddenly asked.

Who?

He pointed to the gold band on her finger.

Yes, she nodded and stared out the window again.

He probably saw this, she said, the lighthouse. One of the last things, a green light at the edge of the world.

Pars reached into his tweed coat, pulled a photograph from his inside pocket, and laid it on Ana’s knee.

My niece, he nodded.

She picked up the photo. It was an old Kodak print, with a white scalloped border, of a girl’s head slightly out of focus. The girl had raven hair and was laughing, and the ocean in the background was opalescent green.

She looks like you, Ana observed.

People say that.

He put a finger on the photograph.

It’s the Persian Gulf, he explained, there in the background.

I see, Ana said. She didn’t want to say: The sea is swallowing her up, even then.

Ana took her knapsack from beneath the seat, unzippered the front section, and pulled out her address book. She removed from the fold the photograph of Russell she’d been carrying for days. It was taken on a mountain in Maine on a research trip. He held a Bicknell’s Thrush in hand, and was making a goofy face, mimicking the expression of the frightened bird. She handed the photograph to Pars.

What kind of bird is it? he asked.

A thrush.

It’s a beautiful word, isn’t it? he said. Thrush. In Farsi it’s basmarak.

Farsi?

Persian, he explained.

Oh. Ana nodded. So that was his accent: Iranian.

Ana introduced herself. Pars told her his name, and they handed back each other’s photographs.

May I ask you, Pars inquired after a pause, have they found him yet?

My husband?

Yes.

She bit her bottom lip and shook her head.

Lailah too, he said, she hasn’t been found either.

They both fell silent. Pars stuffed his photograph back in his coat pocket. Outside the day had gone gray, blue asters along the road, white bouquets of angelica. Ana mouthed the word “angelica” to herself. They chewed on the reddish stems during the plague, Russell once told her. It was supposed to ward off evil spirits.