They were passing the old cemetery. Oisín knew it was there, but the kids took no notice. To them it would look like a tumble of ancient white stones strewn across a hillside of amber grass. Somewhere in that cemetery, Oisín remembered, were buried Spanish missionaries, Matsun Indians, innumerable cattlemen and cattlewomen, a handful of Mahoneys, one of them an infant, and the man who for thirty years drove the stagecoach between San Juan and Monterey. Now the graves were overgrown and though Oisín knew he should feel wistful, he found he did not much care. It did not move him either way; standing over the dead had never held appeal. Lives were celebrated in stories, not on stones.

But there was a related question Oisín had been ruminating on. What should be preserved? Everything? Nothing? He’d been lugging around a Colonial-era needlepoint that he’d assumed, for decades, was worth a fortune. But then, a few months ago, he’d shown it to a traveling antique trader and was told it was common and in poor condition and worth less than $200. Not that he had ever intended to sell it, but it was a gut punch. It was the one precious thing he owned. Everything else in his riverside cabin was plain and replaceable and would be sold for pennies when he was gone.

“That’s it!” mushroom boy yelled, and then swerved off the path and up a gentle rocky slope. Oisín looked up to where he was headed, and knew the boy had found it. The shape of that manzanita was unmistakable. The rest of the kids looked back to Oisín for confirmation. He nodded and shooed them to follow the boy with the mushroom head.

“You coming?” Rebecca asked.

Oisín watched the last of the children run up the hill. Half of them had already disappeared in the latticework of the vast manzanita. He expected them to reappear momentarily, complaining about the long walk they’d taken and for what? For some muddy things in an old tree. He looked down on this lovely person, Rebecca.

“You think I should?” He wanted her encouragement. He needed her strength.

“I think we should,” she said.

They stepped off the path and made their way up the dusty path cut by the children’s scrambling. Rebecca’s legs yearned to move faster. Her eyes had already glimpsed some of the activity within the tree. But she stayed with Oisín, matching his deliberate pace. The fact that none of the children had emerged meant something, but Oisín was too preoccupied with completing the climb without having a stroke to guess what.

When they reached the tree, Oisín could hear voices. “Look!” “Open it!” “Over here!” “This one’s from Guam!”

Rebecca had paused. From the outside, it looked like an impenetrable thicket emerging from solid rock.