From me. Thanks, Tully. Thanks loads. I know my limits, though; I can’t cope with the ATV, the river trail, and Cassie in major-tantrum mode. “Okay,” I say grudgingly. “I’ll pick her up before supper. Be a good girl, Cassie.”

She gives me her most angelic smile. “Yep,” she says.

Twelve more years? I’ll be in the loony bin.

I watch while the three of them cross the road and head down the slope to the river.

Now what?

Can’t stay here.

Can’t go home. Opal said she’d be back before lunch. She might notice Cassie’s missing. Although, what are the odds?

Can’t go to the dojo. I’ve quit.

Can’t bully Glenn Semple. What kind of an idiot was I telling him he was off my list?

Can’t go into town. Just my luck to meet up with Docker and/or Snyder and/or his gang.

In desperation, I decide to go to MacTaggart’s anyway and pick up the latest ATV magazine. That’s when I realize Della is standing at the end of her driveway, beckoning to me with her clippers.

If I was in love with all of Tully, not just her ankles, I’d let her mow Della’s grass. And why not? I don’t need the money now. I’m stuck here until infinity runs out.

A totally useless fact: in four billion years, the sun will become a red giant and we’ll all fry. I roar down Della’s driveway, pull up behind the shed, and turn off the ATV.

She’s followed me down the driveway. As if our last conversation was three minutes ago, not three days, she says, “Come and take a look at the stone wall. It needs rebuilding.”

We walk down the slope and contemplate the wall that edges the woods. It’s a jumble of rocks more than a wall. “First step is to pull it down,” Della says. She looks at me doubtfully. “Even if you’re interested, I’m not sure you can handle it—possibly it’s a man’s job.”

“I’ve been lifting weights.”

“Let’s give it a try. Can I trust you to stop if it’s too much?” I nod again. “All right, I’ll find you some gloves.”

When she comes back, she’s also carrying a pair of old steel-toed boots. She holds them out. “Try these on. It looks as though they’ll fit you.”

Men’s boots.

I take them from her. She hitches her bundle of hair, her gaze far away. “They belonged to my brother, Wendell—he was your typical reckless adolescent who thought he was immortal. After eating some hallucinogenic mushrooms, he decided to race his motorbike on the highway. He drove off the bridge at Collings Harbor and drowned.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“It broke Agnes’s heart.”