“No shit.” Robbie leans against the counter and sips her milk. “That’s different.”

“Right?”

“I still wouldn’t tell Mom and Dad. They will most definitely freak.”

Emma places the glass in the sink. “It was just a conversation. I said no.”

“Is that why you’re down in the kitchen after midnight, eating cookies?”

“Hey, you’re here with me.”

Robbie grins. “I’m providing moral support.”

Emma knows this is only partially true. Her sister developed insomnia when Emma went missing. Even two and a half years after her return, Robbie’s sleep problems have lingered. The toll hasn’t just been on Emma. For a while there, it was like the whole family needed therapy.

“I said no,” Emma repeats gently.

Robbie nods. She picks up her glass and heads toward the hall. “They flew a fed guy from Virginia to speak with you? Can’t fault them for effort.”

“He drove.” Emma picks at the crumbs from her cookie. “He drove from Virginia, he didn’t fly.”

“Man, that’s a drive.” Robbie pushes back her mass of dark hair with one hand. Emma had hair like that once. “He must’ve really wanted that conversation.”

Her sister waves, then wanders back to her room along the hall. Emma sits on her stool, staring at the cookie crumbs, the Boston fern, the pendant light above the kitchen island. Cooper drove from Virginia. Suddenly she knows what it signifies. I will go the extra mile for you, it says. I wouldn’t ask a recruit to do anything I wouldn’t do myself.

He expects her to drive back in return. He was telling her the way is open.

On Saturday morning, Emma helps Robbie bake replacement cookies and helps her mother plant seedlings—petunias, mostly—in flower boxes around the house. Then she goes to the barn, where her father is cleaning the air filter on the tractor.

“How’s it going, Emma Anne?”

She’s careful to reply without hesitation. “All good, Dad.”

“The Rabbit’s running okay? It’s probably due for a new carburetor.”

“The carburetor’s fine, Dad. The car’s holding up.”

“Glad to hear it. You wanna pass me that can of Dust-Off on the bench?”

She passes him the Dust-Off, and later, there’s a family dinner. Everything about being home is comfortable and safe. Except for the fervency of her mother’s mealtime grace blessing, it’s like the world never changed.

Hours later, when Emma’s wrenched up in bed, choking, she realizes the thin, high tinnitus in her head is not tinnitus. And it’s not just going to go away.

She changes her shirt in the dark, pads downstairs. Slips a fresh cookie from the tin and encourages herself to consider the problem from all angles.

Cooper talked about a partner, a unit. The idea of being part of a team is tempting. It’s the isolation of the thing that eats away at you: being alone on the island of the mind. The number of people who have brushed up against what she’s experienced and are still breathing, still functioning, is almost infinitesimal.