Amy told the girl that she was waiting to catch a cab, and in that very moment, as though it had materialized at her very command, an old Chevrolet, with smatterings of rust over the roof and a faded logo on the passenger-side door that had the words Seabrook Taxis wrapped around the now-familiar lighthouse motif, rattled to a stop beside the curb. Its driver—an older man with a long face, sallow skin, and gin blossoms on his nose—emerged from the car and limped his way to the sidewalk. He greeted Amy with a pleasant smile.

“You headin’ someplace, miss?” he asked, his voice warm and gravelly with the rasp of an ex-smoker.

“Um, yes, I am.” She pulled out the flyer and drew the driver’s attention to the address at the bottom. “Could you take me here please?”

“Let me see . . .”

Amy was so surprised by the fortuitous timing that she failed to notice that her new friend was no longer by her side. When she looked around, Amy saw the little girl had returned to the square and was happily playing by the fountain. Amy looked back at the driver, who was now holding open the passenger door.

“I know it well. It’s not far,” he said. “Hop in. I’ll have you there in under fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you.”

The car was hot and stuffy. Amy buckled up while the driver clumsily poked his finger at the buttons on the meter before stretching out his arm in lieu of raising the turn signal and slowly pulling away. They left the bustling town square behind and were soon on the outskirts of town, traveling at a leisurely pace through a sun-filled valley on a road bordered by tree-covered hills.

“Beautiful day for doin’ some horse riding, ain’t it, miss?”

Amy smiled, but didn’t bother to correct him. “You’ve come this way before, I take it?”

“To the Porter Ranch? Yes, miss, I’ve taken a few in my time, though, come to think of it, you’re the first in quite a while.” He went silent, then mused, “Beautiful country up there.”

Amy looked around the car, which she guessed he had owned for a long time. Two dream catchers hung from the rearview mirror, family photos adorned the vinyl dash, and a large pickle jar, full of coins and curled-up dollar bills, sat snug in a drink holder.

“You sound like you know them?” she asked, picking up on the informality with which he’d referred to the family.

“Me? Not really. Just part of livin’ in a small town, you see. We all know each other to some degree.”

“Right, of course.”

“Especially the Porters,” he added. “Almost all of Seabrook knows about the Porters.”

“They do?”

“Oh, most definitely.”

Though the unprompted comment left Amy a little intrigued, she thought it best not to pry.