He didn’t push. Instead, he leaned closer, almost touching his ear to the wood. Pollen seeped in with his every breath, watering his eyes. A clock ticked at the end of the hall, keeping time with his heart. Sheets rustled inside.

“It is through suffering that we reach a pure state of being….” The voice was so deep and flat that at any other point in his life, Max would have grabbed the fireplace poker and flung the door open, expecting to encounter a stranger. But he knew it was her.

“Death is just sleep, just sleep…,” she groaned, then broke into a throaty sound (maybe a chuckle?) that squeezed at the depths of Max’s chest.

He let go of the handle, blinking rapidly as he fell back a step.

He should go inside. He should check on her. But he couldn’t stop backing away. He clutched the sides of his head, trying to block out the laughter, knowing that his mother was not only aware of his presence, but that she was laughing at him.

Only, that wasn’t her laugh.

He stumbled farther, still choking on lilies as he fumbled for his phone. He yanked it from his pocket, and it vibrated in his hand. He glanced at the screen.

The text read:

Hi, Maxwell. I hope this is your number. It’s me, Vera.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Vera

Vera sat on an unpainted wooden picnic bench, peeling a thick splinter from the board. When she texted Maxwell last night, it was as if he’d been waiting by the phone. He called her back immediately. He didn’t text; he called. She didn’t have too many phone conversations with people who weren’t her parents or who weren’t offering her a free cruise, so the entire interaction should have been awkward, but it wasn’t. It was almost prophetic.

“You’ll help me?” Maxwell said as soon as she picked up, like he already knew.

“Yeah.” She nodded, though he couldn’t see her, and they arranged to meet at his family’s restaurant the next day.

Vera had the day off, and thankfully, with a spare gallon of gasoline, she was able to get her aging hunk of metal started. Maybe there really was a patron saint of mechanics. Or maybe she was supposed to walk home and see that winged skeleton in the fog. Either way, it brought her to Oliver Seafood.

She glanced around the open-salt-air restaurant. Galvanized metal buckets rested on tables holding laminated menus, paper napkins, and condiments in yellow and red plastic bottles. Live lobsters crawled in a tank near the register. Through a giant glassless window, Vera spied chefs bustling in white coats, steam rising into their faces. At the table with the best view sat an elderly couple with a fully unobstructed expanse of ocean spread before them. The afternoon sun was high in the sky, a breeze fluttered the woman’s white hair, and seagulls called in the distance. The tables around them were empty.

It was June, in a beach town, during what should be the lunch rush, at one of the only oceanfront restaurants in town, and Vera made up fifty percent of their tables. She wasn’t even eating.