I sit in one of the armchairs and leaf through them. Glenn and his dad are unpacking boxes of paperbacks, chatting back and forth. No room that I can see for any more books. Guess I should take the thickest.

The book about the wall wins out. I write down the titles of the other two in case they’re available at the library. Or I could ask Mr. Semple to lay them aside, and pay for them later out of the stash.

Between the armchair and the cash register, there’s a rack of cards. A photograph catches my eye. A girl on the beach, tossing a ball to a dog that’s leaping in the air to catch it. Joy isn’t a word I use much.

I’ll send the card to Kendra. Just to say hello.

I can’t see me and Cassie running away to Toronto, not when I have friends right here on Hilchey River Road. But it would be nice to keep in touch with Kendra.

Mr. Semple takes cash for the card and puts the book in a bag. “Excellent choice. The artist’s a fascinating man. Don’t let those walls fool you—he’s obsessed with the ephemeral. If you’re interested, I can lend you some of his other books.”

Ephemeral as sunlight through a hawk’s feathers? “I’d like that. Thanks.”

Through the open doors I can see the deck, with its wooden tables and canvas umbrellas. People are sitting out there, relaxing. I say, Joe Cool, “I guess I’ll go outside and have a coffee.”

I choose a table where I can see the ocean and order iced coffee with a cinnamon bun, as if I do this every day. Which is when I have a brainwave. I’ll bring Tully here for our first date. Anyone can go to Tim Hortons. But the deck of The Laughing Loon has a touch of class.

Tully Langille has class.

The iced coffee slides down easy, and the bun is fresh.

My knuckles still hurt.

Beaver Lake ... Blazer, Sunfire, Cavalier, and Camaro ... chords coaxed from an old guitar and water lilies floating on a turquoise pond ... He didn’t hit me the day I fumbled the ball for the fourth time. He never locked me in the dark and his belt stayed around his waist.

Am I supposed to feel grateful?

I look down at the plate. It’s empty—I didn’t even taste the last of the cinnamon bun.

I’ll order another one.

Waves splash on the sand. The beach is a long, smooth curve, like the Buddha’s robe. Against the sky, the horizon is as clean as the edge of a page.

I push the empty plate aside and open the book.

[author’s note]