Sylvie considers her answer. “He has rhinophyma—a skin disorder that makes an alcoholic’s nose swollen and red. So you could say a doctor’s visit to check his pancreas was an educated guess. Or you could believe that his mother came to the red door, showed me her son’s diseased organs. Asked me to help him.”

Sylvie meets my gaze. The sparkle in her eyes as she watches me grapple with what’s true makes me chuckle. Despite the fact that Max’s answers hurt her, that he hadn’t wanted to help her, she still tried to do right by him. Again, she shows kindness. When we step into the warm hotel lobby, in a rush I say, “I’m not sorry about last night. Are you?”

Sylvie’s smile is suddenly shy and the grim day brightens a touch. “I’m not sorry, either.”

Back in the room, I start with the easiest method—online white pages. There are forty-two Horsleys listed in Portland but no Scott, Fay, or Faith. I give Sylvie her phone, just for this, and we call all of them anyway, figure they might be somehow related. Neither of us gets a hit.

“What next?” Sylvie asks.

“A lot of people no longer have a landline so let’s try people search engines.” She watches over my shoulder as I type names into the free apps, TruePeopleSearch and ZabaSearch. Nothing. I agree to a fee and try BeenVerified and Pipl. No hits for a Scott and Fay or Scott and Faith.

“How about Facebook?”

“There will be hundreds of Horsleys,” I say. “And there won’t be any numbers.” We spend the next hour looking anyway. Find a Scott Horsley who lived in the Midwest, rides motocross. A Faith Horsley who has a book club with thousands of followers. There’s even a Scott and Fay Horsley who are siblings, professional tap dancers.

We order room service for lunch—grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. Sylvie wraps long cheese strands around her index finger then nibbles them off like a little kid while Moose and Chris play with his fuzzy toy.

Suddenly, Sylvie exclaims, “Rotary!”

I mentally kick myself, embarrassed that I didn’t think of it, quickly pull up the website, scan the list of past presidents and the years they served. Two short calls later and Sylvie has spoken to Mr. Jones, gotten a number for Faith Horsley, who uses the last name Benson, and set up a six-thirty meeting with Faith for tonight at her home. Giddy, she spins in circles then falls onto my lap. I kiss her. Maybe it’s wrong to do this again, given, well, everything. But people do the wrong thing for all sorts of reasons. I’m not trying to manipulate Sylvie. I haven’t demanded sex to shelve my article. The truth is what started as a mutual need for an emotional release has shifted. My attraction to her now runs deeper. Our kisses intensify. We’re both adults. We’re both making this choice. Sylvie unbuttons my jeans. I ignore the warning bells signaling that I’m in danger of losing objectivity and pull off her sweater and lace bra. The sound of bullfrogs loudly croaking breaks through the moment. I reach behind her, send the call to voicemail.