The oddest part of it all is Tom. He sits in an armchair in the corner, not saying much. I think I saw him fall asleep at one point, but besides that he simply sits, resting, observing. It all feels rather professional. I have a strange fear that he will charge us for these hours, that I won’t be able to pay him. At one point he walks over to the deck doors and stares out over the lake. Other than that, I don’t see him get up.

“Do you mind if I go into town?” I ask him. You are still asleep on the couch.

“Go for it,” Tom says. “If she wakes up, I’ll have a chat with her, try to get a conversation started. We’ll go from there.”

I walk to the front door.

“Take my car,” Tom suggests.

“That’s okay. Thanks. I’ll just take mine.”

I hate to leave you, but a few things compel me to go back into town. First of all, I need to see if it’s really as dire a little village as it seemed when we first arrived. I want to see if there’s a school, other children, a potential life here for you. I’m feeling more and more urgent with each passing day to find you a landing spot after I’m gone.

Anytime to three months.

Second, and perhaps even more urgently, I have this inexplicable desire to go back to the diner. I feel like there’s something there, something I missed. The story you made up when we were there, and especially the things you said about the waitress, have left me wondering.

The drive reminds me of everything I grew up loving about Nysa—the forest that borders the lake, the wide-open fields, the way the roads bend and turn. I’m smiling to myself, and I open the window a few inches. I wish you were with me and think about going back, but you were sleeping so peacefully, and I really do hope Tom has a chance to talk with you about the woman. I press on.

Even in the midst of this beauty, a cloud rises from the direction of the town. Getting closer, I see it’s black smoke billowing from a farmer’s burn pile. I close the window to keep out the acrid smell, and as I pass the farm, I can see the fire roaring in the middle of a harvested cornfield. An old man and his wife take things from the back of a dilapidated pickup and toss them into the flames, retreating from the heat after throwing each item.

I slow down and look over into the field, and the couple stops what they’re doing, returning my stare. He slouches, loops his hands in his jeans pockets, and she leans heavily on a shovel. Their faces are flat, inexpressive, and I instinctively wave. But they don’t move a muscle. For as long as I can see them in the rearview mirror, they watch me drive away.