Henry tossed me a bottle of water from the fridge. “My mom’s obsessed with saving everything. She keeps saying maybe it can all be used later for something else.”

“You mean… hoarding?”

“Yeah. My dad’s been trying to get her to speak to a therapist. She’s always been into scrapbooking and saving souvenirs and stuff, you know? Seems like losing Liv has kicked her tendency to want to save and cherish things into high gear.” He looked around the kitchen with a look of defeat on his face. “Part of me pities her, and another part of me is really angry that she’s let it get this bad.”

Henry didn’t seem to want to elaborate, and I didn’t press him for details. Mrs. Richmond had seemed okay to me when I’d interacted with her back in January. She’d offered us the use of her credit card during our trip to Michigan, and had kept the secret of our destination, even though she must have known we were venturing directly into danger. But now, on second thought, it was clear to me that her actions were not those of an adult in the best state of mental health. I suppressed the urge to suggest having my dad call Mrs. Richmond to provide help. I might not live long enough to see that offer through.

Henry flipped on the lights in the garage, and my breath caught in my throat. A red Prius—Olivia’s sixteenth birthday present—was parked in the second spot. I hadn’t seen it since the day she died; I’d passed it in the high school parking lot that morning and felt a pang of envy. I’d never—in all the months that had passed since September—wondered who’d traveled out to the mall in Green Bay to pick it up after the accident. But now, seeing the forlorn expression on Henry’s face when his eyes landed on it, I had my answer.

“I think the radio’s over here, with his tool stuff,” Henry murmured, passing me to cross the garage and reach steel shelving that was heavily loaded with shrink-wrapped flats of bottled water from Costco and cardboard boxes. Mr. Richmond’s radio wasn’t hard to find, but it required a fresh pair of nine-volt batteries. “I guess they didn’t use this thing the day of the tornado,” Henry remarked.

Fortunately, since Mrs. Richmond’s tendency to stock up on seemingly trivial items and store them was not a new one, Henry was able to find the exact batteries he needed in the kitchen.

He popped the new batteries into the radio, and then turned the on/off knob. After a second, the chords of an old Bon Jovi song trickled out of the old device, sounding like the radio waves carrying them to our ears had originated somewhere very far away—like the other side of the galaxy. “We’re in business. How do we find your sister?”

I switched the frequency to AM and twisted the dial all the way to the left before slowly, slowly turning it to the right. Leaning forward, I turned my head to position my ear closer to the radio’s speaker. “Don’t laugh at me. I know I look ridiculous,” I told Henry.