“Let’s go to Edna’s for breakfast,” George said.

They walked the short distance to Edna’s Diner, missing the endless ocean vistas but appreciating the mountain ranges that rimmed their village. They found a booth. Hilda ordered scrambled eggs and toast, while George got the lumberjack breakfast—eggs, bacon, sausage, and hash browns. They both got coffee from their server—Brandi, according to her name tag.

“So, are you folks just visiting or traveling through?” Brandi asked.

The Houghtons smiled.

“We live here,” Hilda said. “We’ve been away on a cruise.”

“Oh, nice.”

“What did we miss while we were away?” George asked. “What about that story about the girl missing from the motel down the street? I was following it online from the ship. I think we were in South America when it happened. Then the Internet connections got spotty. They ever find her?”

Brandi bit her bottom lip and shook her head. She couldn’t have been much older than 17.

“I don’t know. I’ve only been living around here a short time. Sorry.”

“Oh, that’s no bother,” George said.

“Where’re you from?” Hilda asked.

“Denver. My mom’s a dentist in Orleans. That’s where I go to school. In Orleans.”

“Well, welcome to Vermont,” Hilda said.

While they ate, Hilda suggested that George—being more of a news addict than her—ask Barney in the kitchen about the missing girl story.

“No rush. I’ll catch up on the news eventually. I’ll go online.”

After they’d finished, Hilda reached into her bag for her pad and pen. Over coffee, and while waiting for their check, she began making a to-do list that included groceries, picking up their mail, making sure all the bills were paid, checking on their phone messages.

“I’ll check phone messages when we go home,” she said.

“Probably nothing but telemarketers and scammers,” George said.

Working on their coffee, they discussed their plan to write a travel book together based on their round-the-world cruise. They had moved to Spiritsburg from Burlington three years ago. They were retired University of Vermont professors. Hilda taught English Literature; George was a wildlife biologist. They’d each taken extensive notes and photos, and were planning to collaborate on a book once they decided what kind it would be—a guide book, a book of memories, or a book of historical literary sites.

But for the time being, George was eager to get back to his passion.

When they got home, Hilda set out to check their phone messages while George set out to do some cleaning of his own, starting with the highest point. He got his ladder from the garage and leaned it against the tall flagpole in the corner of their yard. It was capped with a platform that could accommodate a bird house. With a cloth and cleaner bottle fastened to his belt, he ascended the ladder.