I don’t have much of a choice, she thought. Though to be fair, the place was pretty with its light coating of fresh snow and little country houses. It looked to her as she imagined an isolated Canadian town would, content to stay the way it was and let the rest of the madly rushing world pass it by in a blur.

She stopped at the store and grabbed some groceries. A woman in her sixties punched in the numbers and took her money without a word, but she refused to let it kill her mood—the sun was shining, it was a fine day. When she got back into the car, she took a left at the next fork, since ahead of her the ground rose again and the houses grew farther and farther apart, the woods thickening until even the road disappeared on its twisting, turning way.

Several more houses faced each other across the narrow street, then a volunteer fire department in what looked like an old barn, and the police station where a couple of beat-up old trucks sat crumbling in the parking lot. As she drove past the station, she found a deli called the Railway Cafe with a Coors Light sign in the window and a half-full parking lot. Maybe this was where the action was in St. Boudin, she thought. As good a time as any to find out.

Inside, the place was more pleasant that she would have predicted. A counter ran along the left wall and several people sat on stools, talking quietly. She sat down in one of the little booths by the window. In a moment, a young, pretty waitress walked over and handed her a menu. “Give you a minute?”

Helen nodded, grateful that she spoke English, and the waitress smiled and continued about her business. A quick glance at the menu told her it was nothing special, your basic soup-and-sandwich deal. She settled on a bowl of New England clam chowder, which was probably out of a can but would be good and hot, she hoped.

After she ordered, she let her eyes play over the walls around her. They were covered with all sorts of quotes and sayings—from a syrupy-sweet crocheted “Home Sweet Home,” framed with braided string, to a print of the Norman Rockwell painting with the little girl in pigtails outside the doctor’s office. But what intrigued her most was a bulletin board down near the far end of the counter covered with newspaper clippings and flyers. She got up and walked over for a closer look.