Olive liked this. She doubted folks back then would be so quick to tear down a wall and put up another the way she and her dad did constantly. Part of her kind of wished to go back to a time without power tools and plywood and drywall.

Along with all the cool stories she told, Olive also loved that Helen was really interested in Hattie. Not just in all the creepy ghost stories, but in the real woman behind them. Helen had been doing research—looking online and asking around in town—but was frustrated that she hadn’t yet learned any real facts. Olive had told her that her aunt Riley might be able to help—she volunteered at the historical society and could get Helen in. Today, they were on their way to the salvage yard where Riley worked.

“You’re gonna love this place!” Olive promised as they pulled up in front of the Fox Hill Salvage Yard. “And you’re also gonna love my aunt Riley.”

Olive led Helen into the big salvage warehouse, past the old hand-hewn beams and milled lumber, the rows of old bathtubs, racks of plumbing fixtures and copper pipes. Helen stopped to look at sinks and tubs.

“You were right,” Helen said as she walked up to a deep soapstone sink like she was being pulled by a magnet. “This place is amazing! Oh my god, look at this sink!”

“I’m gonna go find my aunt,” Olive said. “You look around.”

Olive found Riley behind a big desk on a raised platform in the middle of the store.

“Hey, Ollie!” Riley called out. She came around the desk, jumped down, and enveloped Olive in one of her bone-crushing hugs. “This is a nice surprise! What are you doing here? Where’s your dad?” She looked around.

“He’s working. I came with my neighbor Helen, you know, the lady I’ve been telling you about?”

“Cool! Can’t wait to meet her.”

“She’s over by the sinks, I think. She kinda has a thing for old stuff.”

Riley smiled. “Well, she’s in the right place! Hey, I’ve got something for you,” Riley said. She went back up to the desk, pulled her messenger bag out from underneath it, and rummaged around for a minute. “Here it is!” she chirped, coming back down and presenting her gift to Olive.

It was a small brass compass, tarnished and scratched.

“I picked it up at a yard sale.”

“It’s amazing,” Olive said.

“It’s for helping you find your way,” Riley told her, and Olive had a feeling she meant a whole lot more than just getting in and out of the woods.

“Thank you,” Olive said. Olive looked down at the compass in her hands, the needle spinning, wavering, until it settled on north. She told herself to be brave, to just ask—it was now or never. “Hey, Aunt Riley, can I ask you something?”