Sheila laughed. "It's not like we could get lost. If we hit the ocean, we'll know we've gone too far."

They headed down the main thoroughfare. Many of the cream-colored brick buildings looked like they'd been there for decades, possibly even from the turn of the previous century. Any sign of urban decay many small towns suffered had been smothered by colorful earthen-toned paints, hanging flowers and potted trees. The shops all screamed "retail therapy," from a chocolatier and a quilting store to a clothing boutique and an antique shop that sold barnwood doors, tin-bucket planters and tables made from salvaged wagon wheels.

Martin remembered once having seen a TV ad for Barrows Bay—it took him by surprise and he'd almost jumped out of his skin. It was for something called "Women's Weekends," two solid days and nights of wine and shopping. He couldn't have imagined it from what he remembered of his hometown, but standing at the corner of King and Princess he realized this place was nothing like what it once was.

Wolfe was right. You really can't go home again.

Thinking this, he looked up to see himself in a shopfront window.

"Look, Ma, I'm famous."

In the window display a small space had been reserved for "LOCAL AUTHOR MARTIN SAVAGE." It featured a blow-up of his author photo from the dustjacket of Dangerous Curves, taken when he was much younger, a real ladykiller just like Norma said, on a stand behind several of his hardcovers placed on risers.

The Constant Reader bookstore was a warren of dark shelves lined with paperbacks and hardcovers of all sizes. There was a small reading area near the entrance. The glass on the bottom of the door had been smashed and covered with cardboard, held to the frame with duct tape.

"Looks like you've got a number one fan," Sheila said. "You going in?"

"How could I resist?"

She peered down the street. "Let's get the shortening first, huh? I don't want to make an enemy of your mom on the first day."

"Fine, fine," he said, and reluctantly allowed himself to be dragged away.

Sinjin's Wholesale Grocery stood at the top of Princess Street on the northern edge of town. It sold everything Martin would have expected to see in a Brooklyn hipster co-op: fresh, "organic" fruit and vegetables from local farmers, a deli section with "free-range" meats and "responsibly harvested" lobsters in a giant tank, a bulk foods section, shelves stocked with non-GMO products and a limited supply of big-name brands. A small selection of local craft beers—a brand called Ravenous seemed to be most prominent—and wines were available in their own section of the store, along with staples like Narragansett and Jack Daniels.

"Technically, grocers aren't allowed to carry liquor in Rhode Island," a man said behind Martin as he perused the alcohol longingly. "So we just pretend this kiosk is a store of its own."

Martin turned and looked up. The man was a giant, with thinning black hair, a bushy black beard and black, thick-rimmed glasses. He wore an apron with the Sinjin's Wholesale Grocery logo on it and a button with "HELLO MY NAME IS" and SINJIN written with a Sharpie.