I feel like I’m onto something. I’m just not sure what. When Evie’s not looking, I peer through the Nook’s display window, and as traffic speeds past, I catch a glimpse of what might be Lucky’s red Superhawk parked across the street. “Okay, what else? When did he get his motorcycle?”

“God, I don’t know. He fixed it up for months. A year ago, maybe? Before that, he rode an actual bicycle around town. Weird to think about that now. He sort of transitioned from the nerdy loner in the bookstore to Phantom.”

“Oh, really? You don’t say … ?”

She frowns. “What’s this all about, anyway?”

“I’m just thinking about something Mom told me once,” I say, staring out the window at Nick’s Boatyard.

“Which is?”

“Even little trees cast big shadows when the sun is setting.”

I think about everything Evie told me. I think about it a lot, in fact. And I wait for Lucky to get back to me about letting me help him pay for the window.

He finally does.

A small envelope mysteriously appears, mixed in along with the shop’s business mail—no stamp, no postmark, no return address. It’s simply addressed to me in tight, neat script, and when I unearth it, I stare at it as if it’s some strange archaeological discovery before ripping it open to find a short note scribbled on what appears to be a blank invoice sheet from Nick’s Boatyard. It says oh-so-politely:

Dear Josephine,

Though I do appreciate your offer, I can’t accept it. This is something I need to do alone.

Thanks anyway.

Your old friend,

Lucky

I reread it several times. So formal … so familiar. Then it hits me. It’s basically the same email I sent him two months after I left town when I was twelve, after Mom had heard through Aunt Franny that Lucky was out of the hospital, healing up from surgery, and back in school. I still have the email in the Sent file of a free, virtually dead email account that I barely use or check:

Dear Lucky,

Though I’ve tried in vain to contact you multiple times about my current family situation, you have not responded. We’re now in Boston, staying at a Motel 6. Guess this is something I have to do alone now. Thanks for nothing.

Your former friend,

Josephine

I’m not sure whether I want to laugh at how obnoxious I was back then, or cringe at how callous it was. Okay—cringe. I’m definitely cringing. I wrote that email before Mom found a decent job and after most of our money had run out. We were days away from getting booted from the motel … and from sleeping in our car for a short stint. It was a really scary time for me.