“What did you build the fence for?” asks the mother. “You ruined your view. It’s so pretty here.”

He doesn’t tell her he can’t look at the ocean or across it. He doesn’t say anything. He just tries to smile. Then he asks, “Can I get you some coffee?”

The father, a small man with thin gray hair and jeans perfectly creased, says, “I think I understand,” placing his hand on his wife’s knee, silencing her. It must remind him of the war, the man thinks. “I couldn’t face the Atlantic after World War Two. We even had to move to the Midwest.”

Thomas is quiet for a long while. He sees Murph, the violent one, the worst of the batch, but they want to know about their son. Then he says, “He always talked about you.” Tears brim even though he is lying; he can’t help it. “He said he’d be happy just to sleep in his own bed and know you were nearby. He wrote you letters, but there was no one to give them to. He had them in his pocket. They disintegrated. In the jungle weather it all comes apart. Especially in the monsoon season. They were ruined before we could get back to have them sent.” He gazes off toward the ocean, seeing only his fence, not yet gray with age and sea wind, seeing roads running like rivers during the fierce rains. He tells them, “He died quick, you know. You should know that he didn’t suffer.”

That much is true.

They are all quiet a long, uncomfortable time. Then the mother begins crying.

“Say,” says the mister, “that’s quite an old refrigerator. You don’t see many of those.”

“No, sir, you don’t. It’s from the thirties,” says Thomas. Remembering to offer them something. “Would you like some water or something?” Remembering the strangeness of the word sir. Thankful for a moment for Ruth who left behind the food and juice. “It’s fresh berry juice. Made from hereabouts.” And he puts some of the cookies on a plate and offers them to his guests.

Out of courtesy, the mother takes a cookie and sips the juice. “It’s good. Thank you, son.” She wipes her eyes with a hankie. It is scented. She fusses with her hair. None of them know what to say any longer.

They seem to be disappointed. Finding him didn’t have the effect on them that they’d expected. They must have thought he would look like their son, that he would be their son, that he would take his place somehow. But they are just three strangers in a little room with a dusty woodstove, three people making small talk until finally the father says, “Well, thank you for visiting with us, son, but we have to be going now. We’re going to go see my nephew in Oregon.”

Thomas tries to smile, but he cannot bring himself to do anything except stand and go with them to the door.

The man looks down to the water.