He scanned the assemblage of gangly youth, looking for anyone he knew. By their ages and his, and because Oisín had no children of his own, he had to assume these were his great-nieces and great-nephews. He recognized one or two of them. One of the ten-year-olds, a densely freckled boy, was named Oisín, too. They called him Oshie. And there were Edward and Ha Yoon’s kids; he knew them from their Christmas cards, which arrived each year in late November. The other dark-haired kids he had to guess were from the Ortega side of the family, but then again, the German thread of the family was dark-haired, too. He gave up trying to tie any children to any adults. They were all his for now.

“That it?” Oisín asked.

Two more, a brother-sister pair around twelve years old, appeared from the main house, looking miserable. Both were wearing flip-flops.

“You can be miserable,” Oisín said, “but you can’t spread it. And change your shoes. Three minutes.”

They kicked the dirt and went back to the main house. Oisín hoped they might somehow decide not to come.

“Is anyone scared of snakes?” he asked the group.

There were certainly snakes where they were going—rattlesnakes, too—but along the trail they’d easily see any from a good ten yards away. The local kids knew this.

“Everyone know how to fight a bobcat?” he asked. Oisín had been a camp counselor. This was schtick, a way to get the kids intrigued and maybe more alert, too. He checked his watch. Just after three. They’d walk back at sunset, when the animals would begin retaking the valley. They’d no doubt see deer and lizards and rabbits.

Rebecca returned with the two backpacks. Oisín peered into each. She’d added a bag of dried apricots—Evie’s—and a tube of Pringles to one, and a can of Diet Coke and a bag of Swedish fish to the other. But otherwise she’d gathered all the necessary provisions.

“Well done,” he said, and patted the top of her Aussie hat. She beamed.

Oisín bounced his index finger in the air above the heads of the assembled children and counted nine. He didn’t see the miserable two.

“Now we go,” he said, and pointed himself toward the foothills of the Gabilan range.

“Where are we going?” a voice asked.

“The Museum of Rain,” Rebecca said with an air of authority.

The miserable two were back. They’d returned, but only one was wearing sneakers. Oisín did not care. Back in the day, he’d done this walk barefoot just to say he could.

The day was gorgeous. Seventy, sunny, with a sleepy haze in the air.