For a moment, he held my gaze as I took in his face. Something about it pulled at my curiosity. A distant memory, something I might have known once and had long forgotten. But it captured me. And then the old memory sharpened, and recognition surged through my mind.

“You know him?” Bobbie asked.

The round shape of his face, soft jawline and light brown eyes. The same shaggy hair. Wide shoulders, tall and thin, like Jamie. The man before me hadn’t always been a stranger.

Ben. My father.

But I didn’t really know my father because he’d abandoned us when I was young. What I did know of him was from my mother, who resented him for his drinking and faithlessness. I was a little surprised I even recognized him.

Still, I did. And I had no idea what to think, much less feel. This was the monster whose name my mother forbade us from speaking in her house. I’d always assumed he was dead, taken by the Fury along with everyone else.

His eyes grew wide and filled with tears, and I knew that he recognized me. After thirteen years he still knew my face. It was a simple thought, and it filled my heart with confusion. Should I like that he seemed to care about me? Part of me wanted to, especially now.

The other part of me was angry at myself for wanting to like him.

Then he was rushing toward me, leaving the boy to stand alone. His eyes were filled with only joy and love, palpable enough to reach out and touch me.

I stood still, lost in confusion and anxiety. What was I supposed to do?

Casting a glance to my right, I saw that Bobbie was gone. Which meant what?

When I faced my father again, he was only a few paces away, wheezing and dropping to one knee, wide eyes on me, beaming with pride.

“Grace,” he said. His voice was warm and full. “Honey, it’s me.”

I didn’t know how to respond. The others were looking at me, connecting me with the stranger who’d come into town.

He pushed himself up and stepped forward, still wheezing. A part of me wanted to back away if only to avoid his disease, but my legs wouldn’t move.

He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a short braided band. Yellow, purple, and green, knotted at either end of the braid with extra strings dangling.

“Do you remember this?” he asked.

The memory of making it washed through my mind.

“Do you remember?” he asked again.

“It’s the bracelet I made,” I said.

“You made two, actually,” he replied. “One for me and one for you. They matched. I always carry this one with me.”

Strange, conflicting emotions crowded my throat.