Jacob Curtis, Gabe’s boy. Michael saw him jogging up the path with a lumbering gate, waving his arms. Michael took a breath to prepare himself. It was hardly the boy’s fault, but talking to Jacob could be a trial. Before Gabe had gotten sick, he would sometimes bring Jacob around the Lighthouse, asking Michael if he could find something for the boy to do to make himself useful. Michael had done his best, but there really wasn’t much Jacob could understand. Whole days could be swallowed up by explaining the simplest tasks to him.

He came to a halt before Michael, dropping his hands to his knees and heaving for breath. Despite his size, his movements possessed a childlike disorderliness, the parts never quite seeming in sync. “Michael,” he gulped, “Michael—”

“Easy, Jacob. Slow down.”

The boy was flapping a hand before his face, as if to push more oxygen into his lungs. Michael couldn’t tell if he was upset or simply excited. “I want to see … Sara,” he gasped.

Michael told him she wasn’t there. “Did you try at the house?”

“She’s not there either!” Jacob lifted his face. His eyes were very wide. “I saw her, Michael.”

“I thought you said you couldn’t find her.”

“Not her. The other one. I was sleeping and I saw her!”

Jacob didn’t always make perfect sense, but Michael had never seen the boy like this. His face wore a look of complete panic.

“Did something happen to your dad, Jacob? Is he okay?”

A frown creased the boy’s damp face. “Oh. He died.”

“Gabe’s dead?”

Jacob’s tone was disturbingly matter-of-fact; he might have been telling Michael what the weather was. “He died and he won’t wake up anymore.”

“Flyers, Jacob. I’m sorry.”

That was when Michael saw Mar hurrying down the path. He felt a gush of relief.

“Jacob, where have you been?” The woman stopped before them. “How many times do I have to tell you? You can’t run off like that, you can’t.”

The boy backed away, his long arms flailing. “I have to find Sara!”

“Jacob!”

Her voice seemed to hit him like an arrow: he froze where he stood, though his face was still animated by a strange, unknowable dread. His mouth was open and he was breathing fast. Mar moved toward him cautiously, as if she were approaching some large, unpredictable animal.

“Jacob, look at me.”

“Mama—”

“Hush now. No more talk. Look at me.” She reached up to his face, placing a hand on each of his cheeks, focusing her eyes on his face.

“I saw her, Mama.”

“I know you did. But it was just a dream, Jacob, that’s all. Don’t you remember? We went back to the house and I put you to bed and you were sleeping.”

“I was?”