Will turned and began to search the house for his brother, but his efforts were in vain. Only after he’d stepped outside to check the backyard did he spot Dylan. He was stepping through the gate at the far end of the yard. From the vantage of the back deck, Will could see beyond the wooden fence to the elegiac creek that rushed ahead in search of eventual immersion into Baintree Lake.

Dylan crossed the yard. He was soaked to the skin. His shoes were slathered with mud. As his brother climbed the deck stairs, Will was able to see that Dylan’s eyes were glassy, were fey.

“Where were you?” he asked.

Dylan pressed past him. His passage through the house left earthen footprints on the carpet. Stopping in the living room, Dylan began to peel away his dripping clothes. They plopped onto the floor. Stripped, Dylan shuffled down the hall toward the bathroom. Will heard the door click shut, then the telltale sound of running water.

Dylan finished showering and returned to the living room, dressed in socks and a terrycloth robe. He toweled his hair absentmindedly, staring at the wet stains on the carpet.

“I hung your clothes on the rack downstairs,” Will explained, “and I tried to scrub the footprints out of the carpet as best I could. Mind telling me where you were all night?”

Dylan’s mouth hitched into an unsettling half-smile. “What, you taking over for mom now that you’re back?”

“I’m not back. And I’m not resurrecting mom. I’m just worried about you.”

“There’s nothing to worry about, truly nothing.” Dylan chortled weirdly.

“Julie called your cell just before you came in.”

These words choked off Dylan’s meandering laughter. They also drained the blood from his face.

“What?”

Nonplussed, Will reached for Dylan’s cell phone and displayed it, like the bearer of proof in some grand epistemology. “Looks like she left you a voicemail.”

With a quaking hand Dylan slid the phone free. He had noticeable difficulty manipulating the keypad, but eventually he held the phone to his ear.

From where he stood, Will could just discern the mousy rasps of a shrill voice.

Dylan’s arm dropped. His phone clunked against the floor.

“What is it?” asked Will frantically, “what’d she say?” He scooped up Dylan’s dropped phone and slid it into the pocket of his trousers.

Wordlessly, Dylan advanced to the master bedroom. Will followed, spitting out a string of brief and frantic questions, none of which were answered.

Now dressed, Dylan stepped back into the hall. He was breathing heavily. “We have to return it,” was all he said before charging downstairs.