He put a hand on Sheila's shoulder and she nuzzled her head into it for a moment.

"It's awful, what happened," he said. "I'm so sorry you had to be there to see it."

She smiled wanly up at him. "In a way I'm glad I was there."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I'll tell you later, 'kay?"

Norma tutted. "Care to share with the rest of the class?"

Sheila patted the old woman's hands, offering her a conciliatory smile. "Not just yet, Aunt Norma."

Norma returned the smile, nodding. "Uh-huh, kids only. I get it. Never let it be said I can't see when I'm not wanted." She pushed up from the table. "All right, you two. I'm heading up."

"Mom gone to bed?"

Norma nodded, dumping her cocoa down the sink and setting the mug beside the dish rack. "Said she was feeling under the weather. Breakfast bright and early?" She winked. It was what she used to ask when she knew he'd been up late partying.

"At the crack of eight," he said.

She grinned. "All right then. Nighty-night."

"G'night," Sheila said.

"Night, Aunt Norma."

Once the creaks of her footfalls reached the top of the stairs and moved above their heads, he sat beside Sheila at the table.

"You okay?"

"I'll live." She sniffled, wiped her nose absently on the back of her hand. "It was just so weird, Martin. The whole thing was weird. Those old ladies, they—"

She stopped suddenly, peering through the doorway into the dark hall as if she was afraid Norma was still out there, listening in.

"What?"

"Not just yet," she said, her voice a little quieter. "I'm still working it all out in my head."

He nodded. No sense in pressuring her. Whatever she had to say she would tell him on her own time.

"Let's go to bed, huh?" he said. "It's been a long day."

"The longest. I'm exhausted. But I think I'll stay up just a little while longer. I've got a lot to think about."

He got up from the table.

"Aunt Norma's a good woman, Martin. You were lucky to have her."

He smiled. "I know. See you in the morning?"

Smiling back, she mimicked Aunt Norma: "Bright and early."

He left her sitting there, wondering what she had to tell him that could be worse than what he already knew. He was curious about the birthing ceremony, the ritual, whatever they called it. If not for the death of the child, he almost wished he could have been there himself.

I could write a book about this town, he thought.

He'd meant it as a joke but as he crept up the stairs so as not to wake his mother, the idea started to take hold. It felt like something that would hold his interest. A semi-autobiographical book, starting with the house fire.

He would need to do a ton of research. Hit the town hall records, the library, the newspaper office and the old schoolhouse. As he reached the top of the stairs, the idea began to feel like it had legs. He could almost see it taking shape in his mind, like a tree growing from a seed in fast-motion, his writerly mind already making connections where there were none before, jumping from scene to scene, building a mystery.