The books were what Bill would miss the most. He could only read some of the words then, and the rest he skipped, like a stone over water. He never lost a taste for reading. He had Mr. Pat to thank for it, Bill would later say.

When we were packing for Indianapolis, I told Bill that we would be traveling light. He asked whether he could bring along some of Mr. Pat’s books. I said he could choose one. He chose the thickest one he could find. Bill was sharp as a dandy, as I said.

I asked him what the book was about, and he read the title to me, The Complete Myths of Ancient Greece.

“Greece is where Mr. Pat was born,” I told him, though I knew that wasn’t the full story of Pat’s island.

Bill’s eyes opened wide. He carried that book to Indianapolis and back, that’s for sure. He still has it too.

A drawing wasn’t going to tell Pat what I needed him to know, so I asked Mr. Cleneay to write some words on my behalf.

“Please give Mr. Hearn the address of Lucy’s people in Indianapolis,” I said.

“Are you certain, Alethea?” the butcher asked.

“He’s my husband, Mr. Cleneay. He should know where he can find me.”

“Is that all, Alethea?”

“Yes, that’s all, Mr. Cleneay.”

That wasn’t all, but that was all that I could say in front of Mr. Cleneay.

Pat was a writer, so I thought he would write to me. That an envelope would arrive and within it a dove and a raven, their heads bending toward each other. Pat had the means, so I thought that he would buy a train ticket to Indianapolis and knock on Lucy’s aunt and uncle’s door, his traveling case left behind in Cincinnati, because he was there just to escort me and Bill back home. Pat was still my husband, so I thought that I was still his wife.

Nothing and no one came for us in Indianapolis. Bill and I made our way back to Cincinnati on our own.

No, we weren’t away for long, Miss.

Bill was wanting to go to school again, and I was wanting to be at home again.

From the outside, the house looked untouched. The dried leaves hadn’t been swept from the front porch, but that was to be expected—I couldn’t see Pat picking up a broom. I opened the door, and the smell of his pipe tobacco was faint—it was already faint by the time Bill and I had left. The furniture was unmoved, but the shelves were missing their books. Not a single one remained. I could see Bill’s mouth hanging open as he took in the loss. I told him to go to the kitchen and get himself a cup of water. I went upstairs and found the bed unmade, a nest of rumpled sheets and pillows, as if he’d just risen and was in the washroom shaving. I looked underneath the bed frame for his traveling case, felt for its worn leather, its corners blistered with use.