He parks the Mercedes on the street and walks up to the house. He knocks on the door as rain streams off the porch roof above him.

It takes a long time before Mary Keene opens the door. She must have been asleep. She wears a rumpled track suit and her hair is a wild mess. She looks blinks at him several times. “Yes?” she says.

She doesn’t recognize him. Which is not a huge surprise. He’s changed a lot.

Before he can say anything, however, a pit bull mix charges from behind Mary. She barely catches the mutt before it lunges at Wade. It snaps and strains and snarls as she holds its collar. Wade’s lip curls back in a snarl as well, almost involuntarily. God, he hates dogs.

“Bailey!” Mary scolds. “Be quiet!”

“I’m sorry,” she says and pulls it away from the door. Wade hears a door slam somewhere deeper in the house as she locks up the mutt, then Mary reappears.

She looks at him again, but as if seeing him for the first time. “I’m sorry. How can I help you?”

There’s a lack of focus in her eyes that Wade’s seen before. There was an old guy on his cell block, a murderer in for multiple life sentences. He’d pretend to know you if you greeted him, but he’d wait for you to give him clues. Alzheimer’s. Wade could always fool the guy into thinking he owed him a cigarette. He must have taken a carton of the old guy’s smokes that way.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Wade says. “Is your husband home, ma’am?”

She hesitates. She doesn’t know the answer. Wade can tell.

“You know, I think he’s at the police station,” she finally says. “I suppose he’s busy with the storm. I’m sorry, you said your name was…?”

He beams at her like a Boy Scout who’s made Eagle.

“Mrs. Keene, it’s me. I’m in town for the reunion and I thought I’d drop by and say hello. Don’t you remember me?”

Her eyes take in his face. She doesn’t know him at all. She smiles back at him warmly.

“Of course I remember you,” she says. “Would you like to come in?”

Wade feels a warm glow inside. This is going to be fun.

Eric parks his car in the lot near the base of Snake Hill, next to the restrooms and the signs for the historical site. He picks up Alana’s sword from the passenger seat. It trembles in his hand a little, and it feels like putting his tongue to a battery. It doesn’t like him, he can tell.

Yeah, yeah, he wants to tell it. Get in line. I don’t like myself.

But he’s not about to start talking to a sword, even a magic one.