It’s a fog-shrouded morning, everything swathed in a white drizzle beneath a dark sky. Visibility is limited, the roads slick. I’m behind the wheel of a Suzuki Samurai that someone on Ethan’s street has been trying to sell—I walked over last night and gave them eleven hundred dollars in cash. The Samurai rides high, and on the interstate it’s as loud as a World War I biplane, but otherwise it’s perfect for what I need.

I pull up to the main entrance to Stone Mountain Park and buy a ticket. Past the gate, Jefferson Davis Drive continues across the man-made lake that curves around much of Stone Mountain. The actual mountain is straight ahead, but the carving is hidden, the fog obscuring all but the most basic outline of the granite knob.

By the time I turn right onto Robert E. Lee Boulevard and then park in the lot by the trailhead, it’s seven forty-five. The fog shows no sign of lifting, which is a double-edged sword—I’ll have a hard time seeing Finn or Verne, but they’ll have a hard time seeing me. Or anyone else.

“I’m in the parking lot,” I say quietly. The microphone on the collar of my raincoat picks up anything above a whisper.

“We’re already in the park,” Caesar says through my earpiece.

“Ethan?” I say.

“On the scenic route,” Ethan says. He and Uncle Gavin are slowly driving around the base of the mountain, Uncle Gavin armed with a camera in his role as a tourist.

The charcoal sky is beginning to pale. Somewhere beyond the fog, the sun is rising. I can make out the corner of a building at the edge of the lot—the Historical and Environmental Education Center, otherwise known as Confederate Hall, an antebellum-style mansion complete with white columns. Inside, every half hour you can see a short film about the Civil War in Georgia. Although Atlanta is a cosmopolitan city, much of the rest of Georgia seems determined to hold on to the nineteenth century.

As if reading my mind, Frankie speaks in my ear. “Did you know Stone Mountain Park opened a hundred years to the day after Lincoln was assassinated? Qué chingados es eso?”

Caesar replies drolly. “Are you suggesting the good founders of this park were trying to say something about the Civil War?”

In my best Southern drawl, I say, “I think you mean the War of Northern Aggression.”

Uncle Gavin’s voice cuts us off. “Quiet and pay attention, all of you.”

“I’m getting out of the car,” I say, and I open the door and step out onto the pavement. Even though it’s June, the morning is unusually cool with the fog, although the sun will burn all this off. Whatever happens with Finn will be over long before that happens.