I don’t wait. I scramble up the path, slipping a little because the ground’s still wet. Out here in the middle of the Pacific, just about every island is a volcano, or used to be a volcano, or a part of a volcano, and I swear you can feel the soul of it under your feet, in the dark, crumbling rock that was once so mighty. I climb and climb. Now the squall is well past, the clouds are parting. From the east comes a gold sun to burn away the haze. I reach the top of the slope and pause to pant. The plateau stretches before me, covered in grass. In the distance, a flash of silver. Behind me, a male voice shouts my name. I lurch forward toward the silver object, running as I have not run in many years, through the wet grass that soaks right through my shoes and socks, the strips of haze that soak my skin and hair. A half mile, or maybe more, I don’t know, and the object takes shape, takes on wings and a tail, a fuselage, a nose that tilts to the clearing sky. A hundred more yards, another hundred, and I come to a stop, heaving for breath, beside the most famous airplane in the world, Irene Foster’s silver Rofrano Sirius that vanished into thin air a decade ago.

I told Lindquist nothing more than the truth that evening at Coolibah, after the charades, when I said I had no recollection of my mother trying to kill herself, or of discovering her unconscious as Lindquist claims I did. At the time, I was only a kid, so I suppose Nature took pity on me and buried that memory in some deep, secret place I’ll never discover.

What I do remember is when Dad came home from Australia. I recall we were alone, the two of us, and Dad was holding me and wouldn’t let go, and I didn’t want him to. I wanted my father to hold me forever. When he pulled away, his cheeks were wet, and a little bit rough. I guess he hadn’t shaved. I told him he couldn’t go away again, not ever, and he promised he wouldn’t. He said he would look after us both from now on, Mama and me, and that nothing could take him away from me, or me from him.

Of course, he didn’t keep that promise. After all, he had to go on making a living, doing the only thing he knew how to do. But when do we human beings ever keep our promises? We mean so well, and we fall so short. He would leave for another air show, another race, another exhibition, and Mama would turn to me and say, That concubine’s going to take him away from us, just you wait. She’ll take everything, and leave us with nothing.