It was a hell of a walk all the way down to 505 Rapids Avenue from the depot. The Wisconsin wind bit at Nick’s face, stiffened his knee, and pained his shoulder as he walked south two blocks and west three through a section of dilapidated clapboard houses and vacant lots, to the bridge that crossed the Bear Trap River. He switched his duffel from right shoulder to left and back again so that he could alternate warming his ungloved hands in his overcoat pockets. The bridge was grated steel with an arch over it; as he crossed, Nick looked down and saw the glinting gray water of the Bear Trap passing under his shoes, burbling white as it bumped into rocks and rushed on. Then he was in the downtown; a block to his right, on the corner, was the sedate brick First National Bank of Pine Rapids, its cupola peering down over the quiet street. Nick recognized Elissa’s grandparents’ house towering atop the hill farther down the street to the west. He hunched down against the wind and turned east. He would avoid that place if he could.

There were only four cars parked the entire five-block length of the downtown, and they were all right in front of Shorty’s Pub. Nick passed the bakery, the dentist’s office with its huge age-yellowed molar dangling above the sidewalk, Ralston’s Furniture, Birnbaum’s Department Store, Tomsovik’s Flower Shop. The displays in the store windows were like placeholders in a day that time forgot. Soon, First Street began to curve with the river, and turned into Rapids Avenue. Two more blocks and, to his left, there was another arched bridge, this one leading out of town to the east. He kept on straight south, though, through three more blocks of pleasant bungalows and midsize trees, and then he had reached the Mickelsons’.

There was no answer when he knocked. Grateful for the shelter from the wind, he waited a minute, then knocked again.

Thanksgiving Day, and nobody home. They had to be at her grandparents’.

So he set off again, his duffel slung over his shoulder. He had hoped his days of marching long distances with a heavy pack on his back were over; well, maybe after today. He hiked back up Rapids Avenue to First Street, then west again through downtown. Now there were six cars in front of Shorty’s. Then he was out of downtown and there were houses on the rising hill. He kept on, finally crossing the town’s westernmost avenue, to where the Mickelson house loomed.