“You have to eat,” Nephy said, joining them, tucking her butt into the chair.

Izzy didn’t want to eat, but her mouth watered anyway. And she knew she needed her strength.

“Was there anything off you noticed about Cyrus in the last few weeks?” she asked after she’d had a few bites.

“He seemed fine. Just being Cyrus,” Seth said.

Nephy nodded solemnly.

“What does that mean?”

“Kind of tight-lipped is all.”

“Tight-lipped how?”

“Izzy, he never told me what was going on in that head of his. He never told anyone shit except you.”

What had he told her? He had not told her the most important things—why he had left and where he had gone. She blinked hard and pressed a napkin to her eyes to catch any moisture, telling herself she wasn’t crying, it was the residue from the fried onions in the air.

“Did Cyrus ever tell you about getting into trouble with the cops?”

Seth shrugged. “Like I said, never told me shit. Why?”

“The cop I went to made it sound that way.”

“Cops.” He looked like he was going to spit. Then he said, “When did you go to the cops?”

“Yesterday.”

“What else did they say?”

“Nothing. As usual. Just tried to make it sound like Cyrus was trouble. Like Joe.”

“Who wasn’t trouble as a kid? They’re useless, the cops. Did you call the hospitals?”

She nodded.

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to ask this, but you don’t think he just took off?”

Nephy put a hand on Seth’s arm and shook her head almost imperceptibly.

“No,” Izzy said. “He wouldn’t have left without an explanation.” The words echoed in the hollow of her chest.

“I’ll help,” Seth said. “Nephy and me. We’ll help. Leave some flyers and I’ll make copies and post them around town.”

◆◆◆

After they had cleared the table and washed and dried the dishes, the women quietly kissed goodbye. Izzy thanked Nephy and left. Seth was sitting on the deck of the boat out front, reading a paperback book in the dying light and smoking a cigarette. He looked a lot older than his wife. All that sun and smoke and booze. All that harm. You’d think if your dad died of lung cancer, you’d quit. Izzy remembered going fishing at the Salton Sea as a kid with Nephy and Seth. They’d stood on a rock as the sun set and the sea blistered red as the cherry of Seth’s cigarette. The fish they caught were too toxic to eat.

Seth had poked a gelid orb with his fingertip. “At least it doesn’t have three eyes.”

“Don’t,” she had said, and he’d laughed. His own eyes had looked barnacle-hard, she remembered.

“Heading home?” he said now.

She told him yes.

He began to pick at the blue paint peeling off the boat like bark. She saw the scars on his shoulders and remembered the iguana with the burns at the rescue center where she’d brought Yard to be evaluated. Seth had told her about the center—he liked to go there to look at the animals—and the burned iguana. He couldn’t stop talking about it, almost obsessively, a strange gleam in his eye. Someone had burned that creature for fun. Izzy had wanted to take the iguana home, but he hadn’t been available yet and when she went back, he was gone.