Ten fresh-out-of-the-package black scented markers. Vanilla, not licorice. The kind Hallie used to carry around in her purse so she could smell them whenever she wanted. The ones that left dark specks on Maren’s nose when she stole and sniffed them, instantly giving her away.

Usually Maren had a knack for finding the exact right gift for a person. Not this year, though. Three weeks ago, she’d lost her sister and her knack.

As she dragged her feet along the wooden boards of the town pier, the not-quite-right presents clanked against the tap shoes in her backpack. All around her, lights flashed and jaunty organ music piped. The foamy edges of the waves splashing at the shore were the palest shade of lavender, and the air smelled of salt and, very faintly, cinnamon. No one knew why Rockpool Bay always smelled like baking, even when the bakery was closed. It was just one of the many reasons people traveled miles and miles to vacation there.

“Singing bubbles, five dollars a bottle!” A freckled woman blew a stream of purple bubbles skyward, and the air filled with a shimmering melody. Maren smiled but kept walking. People in comas had no need for bubbles or balloons or riding the world’s most rickety roller coaster. Their brains were so badly injured that all they could do was sleep. Nothing could wake them, not bright lights or loud noises or even earthquakes.

It was time to give up. There was nothing here for Hallie.

A little girl shot a rainbow puff of edible fireworks into the sky, and as the fruit-flavored sparkles rained down, she and her brother rushed around, catching them in their mouths. Dodging around the kids, Maren headed down a set of stairs and joined the throngs of sunburnt families on the boardwalk that ran along the waterfront.

A growling rumble announced that the bus was on its way, and she fished four quarters out of her pocket. She had just enough time to make it to her grandmother’s dream shop, help for an hour, and get to the hospital. Her mother would meet her there at five thirty, bringing a cake that Hallie couldn’t eat.

With a heavy heart, Maren climbed aboard the inky-blue bus, which was dotted with silver stars and golden starfish, and found a seat. The bus lurched forward, turned onto Main Street, then roared and strained up the cobblestone hill that grew steeper and steeper. It inched past the ice cream shop, the grocery store, and the tavern, the crooked structures all leaning on each other for support. The buildings of Rockpool Bay were painted each spring in canary yellow, turquoise, and tulip pink, but as the year wore on, the salty fog stole in and slowly licked the color from their facades.