I smiled, but I’d never heard of Jackie Russell dogs. Chicken was a Heinz 57, same as the ketchup. I think Girl was too. I could picture her, though, Mrs. Russell, thin and hyper, running here and there. She probably smelled like ginger cookies, the same as Gran did. I couldn’t help imagining myself climbing into the canoe with Mr. Russell, gliding across the water. Just two over. Mrs. Russell would be there waiting, and she’d have something cooked. Baked drumsticks, mashed potatoes. Steaming corn on the cob with real butter. She’d make me sit down, pile up a plate. When I was full to bursting, she’d lift the glass dome off a chocolate cake. Rainbow sprinkles all over the top. With a drink of icy milk. She’d say, “He’s a growing boy, Jim. See how he packs it away?” She’d hug me to her side, pressing my face into her ribs, and I’d sniff in her cookie smell. Mr. Russell would tell me to go swim myself clean: “Put that dirt back in the lake, son. Where it belongs.” And I’d listen. To everything. I could be such a good grandson.

“Anything you need, okay? You just tell your dad.”

“My dad?”

“Sure.”

Carl. The bubble popped. Worry seeped out around me. The sun had just gone below some clouds, and everything had turned dull and gray. Was Carl out from behind the couch yet? Would he think the intruders were back? Planting wires, or whatever it was they did. Last night I’d listened so hard that I was certain I heard things too. Scraping and moaning. Branches. Or creatures stalking through the darkness. “I will,” I said.

“Happy fishin’, then.”

“Thanks.” As soon as his back was turned I stood up and wound in my line. It snagged, and when I yanked the line snapped, floated up in the air. Rod in hand I walked across the dock, a trail of wet footprints on the weathered boards. Just as I reached the back door of the cottage, Carl opened it. Girl rushed out between his legs and squatted down on the soft grass.

“She really had to go,” I said, and tried to smile.

He nipped strands of his beard between his knuckles. “Who was that man, Magic Boy? Who was that man you were talking to?”

MAISY

Me and Gloria were waiting on the front step when a van came driving down the circle. It was white and big and had “Channel 6” on the side and it had muck, too. It came into our driveway. A lady wearing a pink sweater and pink skirt got out and so did a man with a big camera thing.

“Mrs. Janes?” the lady said. “I’m Anita Cahill. Detective Aiken mentioned we’d drop by? To record an appeal for the news?”

“Yes,” Gloria said. She patted her hair.

“Is your husband here as well?”

“Telly’s my husband.”