He didn’t answer, but something else did. It was that voice she had muted in her youth, back when she wanted, above all, to be agreeable. When she thought the only way to stay safe was to appeal to the possessiveness of the powerful. It was the voice that used to tell her if the step below was rotten and wouldn’t hold. The one that told her when to run.

“I’m going to the car,” she said, stepping backward along the dock, her eyes on him. “You take all the time you need, okay?”

“You know, there’s a rumor out there that Philip didn’t leave a suicide note.”

Lily paused.

“He didn’t.”

The voice was yelling inside her now, yelling like something accustomed to not being heard.

Suddenly, her foot slipped.

Gavin leapt for her and grabbed her arm, pulling her back from the edge of the dock. Up close, he smelled like himself. His hand on her skin felt like his. She breathed and told herself that she was overreacting. Then, as he held her close, he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket.

“I brought this for Silas, but I think you should read it too.”

The letter was handwritten and bore many starts and stops. The handwriting was familiar the way her favorite childhood cartoons were familiar: she knew they were important, but she couldn’t name them. She flipped it over and ran her eyes down to the signature.

That’s when it all came back. The beer-run grocery lists, the family whiteboard in the kitchen. The homework she offered to proofread because she wanted to prove herself useful. She was, after all, practically part of the family.

It was Philip’s.

“Oh,” Gavin said, his grip still tight on her arm. “I forgot. I owe you a big thank-you.”

She barely registered his words; she was too busy examining the letter, the handwriting she hadn’t seen in years. The story it told. Philip’s story.

“It has been so kind of you both to host my daughter all summer.”

PEYOTE

“THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE,” THE General croaked. “Impossible.”

“Trust me, Pops,” Cal said, pulling loose one of his pillows and fluffing it. “If I’ve learned anything, it’s that nothing is impossible.”

“You—” he stuttered. “You—”

“Yeah, I died—not that long after you escaped the barracks raid, all things considered. At least you knew that much.”

“How—”

“I’m asking the questions.”

I turned away from them, key hot in my hand, and busied myself with the dresser. I pulled open one drawer and then another, pretending each screech provided them with some semblance of privacy. But then I opened the third drawer, and my fingers stopped on a metal cashbox.

“So, I got to the Farm, and they hadn’t ever heard of you. Explain that, Mr. Chosen-by-God.”

If the General responded, it wasn’t in words.