EXHAUSTED FROM DRIVING, SHE stayed overnight in Syracuse. The next day, she got a late start. The area outside Albany was lovely, with barns tucked into rolling hills, like in Wisconsin. She felt a surge of energy as soon as she hit the Mass Pike. The closer she got to the Cape, the more she remembered—all the positive things she thought she’d forgotten, like the way her father would turn up whatever stupid song was playing on the radio as soon as they went over the Sagamore Bridge, and her travel-weary family, including Michael, would roll down their windows and start singing at the tops of their lungs, magically transformed from weary to revived. When Poppy saw signs for Plymouth, she turned up the classic-hits station. “Walking on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves came on. It seemed like the perfect song at first. She didn’t even like it; it was cheesy and old and familiar, but when she started to sing she became acutely aware of the sound of her own voice and the fact that she was the only person in the car.

She was nervous to reunite with prickly old Ann, who she was sure must have withheld information from her on purpose as a kind of punishment. She hadn’t warned her that Brad was living in their house, hadn’t mentioned their mom’s deteriorating mental state. So why was it hard to stay mad at Ann? Poppy felt lonely for her instead. They’d shared this childhood trip, and the memories, and this horrible loss. If Ann were with her, they could reminisce about the music, and how her mom would insist that they stop at the Friendly’s just off the rotary. She said the ice cream was a reward for good behavior on the drive out, but really it was also a kind of sweet torture she exercised to delay their arrival and amp up their anticipation.

Friendly’s was gone. How could Friendly’s be gone?

Was it possible that the Cape could no longer deliver the way it did when she was a kid? She hadn’t been back since she was sixteen. In all those years, had it become just a place?