“Then I’ll keep you in the story but won’t condemn you as a con artist,” Thomas replies.

It strikes me that everything in life always seems to boil down to an origin story. “It’s a deal . . . if you agree to one detour on the way to Portland.”

“What’s that?” he asks, his tone wary.

“My hometown, High River, is an hour from the city. You wanted to talk to my parents, so we’ll drive out, have dinner with them.” Time with my parents, especially Mom, will throw Thomas off balance and garner sympathy.

“Agreed,” Thomas says, unable to hide a note of surprise.

“Meet me at Union Station tomorrow, two p.m.”

“Why not fly to Oregon?”

“Moose is too big. Plus, I love the train. It’s relaxing. You can interview me during the ride and make sure I don’t do any off-limits research.” I hear papers rustling.

“My calendar has your show for next Sunday. Why go a week early?”

I don’t know how long it will take me to get what I want. “Don’t be late.” Heart hammering, I hang up. “Don’t think,” I mutter. “Pack.”

I pull out a suitcase and fill half with Moose’s food, the other half with clothes for my show, casual stuff, and sneakers for a run. In the back of my closet, there’s a ratty blue duffel filled with the clothes I first brought to SF—hiking boots, jeans, a fleece, red down vest, rain shell. They haven’t been worn in a long time, but April in High River is variable. It could be sunshine and sixties or pissing rain and in the thirties. Will the trees be in bloom?

My father’s deep voice rumbles. We plant pears for our heirs. It’s an old saying. Some pear orchardists’ varieties can take up to twelve years to bear marketable fruit. Their trees are planted for future generations to enjoy and profit.

I’m Wess and Hana Young’s only child, their heir. But I left. They probably won’t let me in the door. I’m counting on it.

NINE

Thomas

Chris won’t look at me. The only time she’s subjected to her animal carrier is for a vet visit, and I haven’t taken her for a long time. Now she’s at Union Station in downtown LA after a stop-and-go Uber ride and the indignity of the bright pink carrier Annie gave me after she rehomed her leaky Chihuahua.

I drop my backpack and tote and sink onto a bench alongside the rails, balance the carrier on my knees, and reach in to scratch under Chris’s chin until she grudgingly purrs. Half Siamese, half tabby, her long orange-and-white fur is matted in spots, thin in others, and she’s lost more weight, hipbones clearly visible. The last thing she needs is a long train ride. “I’m really sorry,” I tell her. “I tried to find a cat sitter but it was late notice.”

My phone vibrates with the roar of a lion. It’s Annie’s ringtone. “Hey, boss.”