I remembered that back in Spokane I had promised to call my father every week. He had bought me a phone for that express purpose. I wasn’t sure whether I would have reception or not, but I stopped, took my cell phone from my pack, and turned it on. There were two bars. I held down on the number 1, calling my father. He answered before the second ring.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Nowhere. I’m in South Dakota on Highway 90.”

“Did you pass Wall Drug yet?” he asked.

“You know about Wall Drug?” I asked.

“Everyone knows about Wall Drug,” he said. “It was in Reader’s Digest and Life magazine.” In my father’s world, everyone had read those magazines. Still did.

“No. But I’ve passed a bunch of their signs.”

“They’re famous for those signs. How are you?”

“I’m doing okay. And you?”

“You know me. Nothing changes.”

“Have you heard from Nicole?”

“Yes. We talk a couple times a week. She’s really a pleasant young lady. We’re taking things slowly. I got her into an IRA and some mutual funds.”

“How is she?” I asked.

“She’s doing great. She got that inheritance.”

“I didn’t mean financially,” I said.

“Oh. Well I wouldn’t know about that. She sounded well.”

“Did she mention Kailamai?”

“Who?”

“I guess not.”

“She asked about you. She wanted to know if I’d heard from you and how you’re doing.”

“Tell her I’m still walking.”

He laughed. “I’ll do that. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she sounds a little smitten.”

“With who?”

“Who do you think?”

I wasn’t sure how to respond so I changed the subject. “Something weird is happening. McKale’s mother …”

“Pamela,” my father said. I was surprised he knew her name. But of course he did. He and Sam had been neighbors for more than a decade.

“Right. Pamela,” I said. “She’s following me.”

“Following you? In her car?”

“On foot.”

“She’s walking with you?”

“Not with me. She’s following me.”

There was a long pause. “What does she want?”

“I’m not sure. She says she wants to talk to me.”

“About what?”

“No idea.”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“I’m trying to avoid her.”

“I saw her at McKale’s funeral,” he said.

“I know. So did I.”

“Maybe you should just find out what she wants.”

“Maybe she should just go home,” I said.

He didn’t say anything. After a moment I said, “Remember that time you threw me that birthday party and we went to the zip line?”

“Yes. And that German girl got her hair stuck in the pulley.”

“She was Hungarian.”

“That’s right. What about it?”

“Thanks,” I said.

“For what?”

“For throwing me the party.”

He was quiet for a moment. “You’re welcome.”

“I’ll talk to you next week,” I said.

“Okay. Be safe.”

“Bye.”